Legends
by auri mynonys
Summary: Sequel to Ruthless. Mercer is on a mission to claim a valuable treasure known as the Hand, and Lord and Lady Beckett are dabbling in the dark arts to heal old wounds and rid the English Empire of piracy.
1. The Hand, the Book, the Child

**A/N: This is the sequel to my long Beckett fanfic _Ruthless_. Please read that first if you have any interest in reading this one, or else you will be quite confused! For those of you who read _Ruthless: _thanks, and I hope you enjoy this story as much as you liked _Ruthless_!**

* * *

The night outside was dark and still, an ominous sort of night that threatened violence to any unfortunate enough to be outside. All the houses in the black streets of London were silent, as though they were quietly attempting to escape the notice of the wrathful dark.

The _Blind Beggar, _however, seemed rather unconcerned with the looming onslaught. Its patrons were obnoxiously loud and boisterous, even at that impossibly late hour of the evening and even though it was a Wednesday. It was doing a steady business, filled to the brim with scum of all types, from pirates to thieves to prostitutes to beggars. It seemed as though the place would burst at the seams if one more person attempted to squeeze in.

Damarah Stovall was grateful for the crowds of people. She was doing a steady business, at last. The customers were raucous and drunk and anxious for her services, and she was more than happy to offer them – for a good price, of course. She had to make her way as much as anyone in the world, and money had been scarce for a long time. But fortunately that night her purse was heavy with coins; some sailors had just returned from a year at sea and they were more than willing to give up their hard-earned pay for some female company.

Damarah was busily seeking out her next customer, searching about the crowded dining hall, when a new person began to force his way through the crowd. She hardly noticed him beneath his tricorne hat and dark brown coat; in fact hardly anybody noticed him. He was like a slender dark shadow as he made his way through the mass of people towards the stairs, where Damarah was perched. He looked up briefly from beneath his hat and took her in, a stern expression on his face, before ducking his head again and slipping silently through the noisome lot about him. Damarah didn't see him coming towards her until he laid a hand on her shoulder. "We need to talk," he said in a low voice.

Damarah raised a hand and swung her fist towards him, but he intercepted the blow before it reached him. Damarah tensed momentarily, then relaxed and smiled when she realized who he was. "Mr. Mercer," she said, withdrawing her hand from his and pressing it to her now-heaving chest. "Bloody hell, don't you scare me like that. You coulda just called to me, you know."

Mercer nodded towards the upstairs rooms. "Are you open for business?" he questioned.

She arched a brow. "Are you interested in buying?"

His glare told her he wasn't. "It would be best if we escaped the crowd," he said flatly. "I have a… matter of some urgency to bring up with you."

Damarah nodded shortly. Under normal circumstances she would have made an even more improprietous remark at that, but it was plain that Mercer was not in the mood for it. She turned and pushed her way up the stairs, with Mercer following closely behind her.

She made her way down the hall to a small, shabby sort of room with a bed and nothing else in it, stepping inside and waiting for her client to follow. He did, kicking the door shut with a ferocity that suggested he was very angry about something. Damarah crossed her arms nervously over her chest and stared at him, waiting. "What can I do for you, Mr. Mercer?" she asked.

He leaned back against the door, tapping agitated fingers against his folded arms. He looked away from her and said quietly, "There is a… a girl. Of noble birth."

"No such girls down here recently," Damarah said, but he shot her a glare that warned her of imminent death if she should interrupt again.

"She doesn't come here," he said shortly. "Her name is Catherine Whitlock. She's to be getting married soon, to Duke Lawless. Perhaps you know of him."

"He comes down here sometimes," Damarah said with a casual shrug. "I didn't realize he was engaged."

"Well, he is," Mercer said tersely. "And the girl he's engaged to… she's pregnant."

"Oh," Damarah said, not quite understanding the significance.

"It's not his."

"_Oh_." Damarah tilted her head to the side. "Is Lawless the man you work for, then?"

"No!" Mercer snarled, and Damarah took a step back, holding her hands defensively in the air.

"I'm sorry," she said fearfully. "I didn't know."

Mercer drew in a deep breath to calm himself. "I know," he said, relaxing slightly. "I'm sorry, this is a… difficult situation for me." He stood there a moment longer, struggling with himself; then finally he burst out, "It's mine. The baby."

Damarah gaped at him, stunned. "It… you… the Whitlock girl… yours?" she finally managed.

Mercer winced at her tone. "Yes," he said. "And I think… at least I am _concerned_ that Lawless may do something to harm the child."

Damarah shifted slightly, frowning. "What makes you think that?" she asked. "He's certainly no gentleman no matter his station, but I can't see him murdering a child – even if it isn't his. He agreed to marry the poor girl, didn't he?"

"She's the sole inheritor to her parents' estate," Mercer said flatly. "And they're very, _very_ wealthy."

"Oh, is _that_ why you -?"

Mercer was across the room so fast Damarah didn't even have time to scream. His hands closed around her throat and he stared down into her eyes with such ferocity that Damarah nearly fainted. She gurgled in fear, trying to draw in air but unable to do so. Her hands frantically clawed at the wall she was now pressed against as she kicked and struggled.

Mercer abruptly released her, and she collapsed in a heap at his feet, wheezing and gasping for breath. He was still glaring at her; she could feel the heated gaze burning through her skull. She winced and pushed herself up onto her elbows, looking up at him with terror.

He stared hatefully down at her. "No," he snarled. "That's _not_ why, and don't you _ever_ suggest it again. Or…" He removed his pistol from his belt, cocked it, and pointed it at her.

Damarah momentarily thought she would faint again. "Yes, sir," she said weakly, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Mercer studied her for a moment, then turned away from her in disgust and walked back across the room, sliding his pistol back into place. "I need you to do something for me."

Damarah didn't want to do _anything_ for Mercer at the moment, but she was certain that if she refused, death would be her only reward. "Anything you ask, sir," she mumbled, moving to sit on her knees.

Mercer was still standing with his back turned to her, his hands folded behind his back. His posture was stiff, and Damarah suspected that if he hadn't been wearing gloves, she would have seen his knuckles turn white. "I'm… going to make certain Cat comes here when the baby is born," he said finally. "I… I need you to find a home for it. Take care of it, or something."

Damarah studied him quizzically. "Will you… er… be involved in raising it?" she asked.

"I can't afford to," Mercer said shortly. "It would be impossible, the way my situation stands…"

"I see." Damarah didn't look disapproving; after all, she lived her life as a prostitute. She felt she had no right to disdain anyone else's position in life. "I'll do what I can for the child. I can't guarantee a good home, of course…"

"A better home, you can," he said certainly, turning back to her with narrowed eyes.

Damarah cringed and cowered back, but forcefully summoned some shred of her courage. "Perhaps," she said with a slight shrug. She wasn't about to go to all the effort he was demanding without good money on the table. Or a gun in her face…

Mercer sighed, then removed a bag from his coat and threw it at her. She opened it and gaped its contents – pounds. Several hundred of them. "That's for finding the child a _decent_ home," he said.

Damarah stared greedily at the money. "I know of an honest middle-class couple that are in want of a child," she said. "I'm sure they'd be willing to take the baby."

Mercer didn't smile. "I thought as much," he murmured. He paused momentarily, then continued, "I'll be away on business. I'm leaving tomorrow morning on a voyage to India. Most likely I won't be back for at least a year. A… female associate of mine will be bringing the child to you after it's born. You'll know her by her face."

"Her face?" Damarah questioned, frowning slightly.

Mercer turned away. "It's covered in scars," he said in a deadened tone. "You won't be able to miss her with a face like that." He paused by the door, glancing over his shoulder. "You will make all the necessary arrangements?"

"Of course," Damarah said with a slight curtsy. "You needn't worry."

"I don't," Mercer replied. And then he was gone in the blink of an eye, slipping unnoticed down the stairs and out the door into the night.

* * *

When Mercer returned to his master's mansion, the first thing he noticed were the lights flickering in several of the upper windows. The lights were reassuring to him, especially so since he knew they were located in Beckett's quarters. Despite the lateness of the hour, Beckett was up and about and doing something.

Mercer had a key to the door and entered with no trouble, politely nodding to Oscar Boddie, the butler, who had been staring out the window next to the door.

"Evening, Mercer," Oscar said with a short nod.

"Anything exciting happen today?" Mercer inquired.

"Oh, so much," Oscar said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "His Lordship received a new shipment of brandy in -!"

"I'm sure that made your day," Mercer said in amusement.

"Oh, yes," Oscar said with a bright smile. "And Beckett summoned a new faerie this afternoon – a kelpie, I think. Nasty water creature. Very wicked. Drowned an annoying beggar boy and ate him, I think, which was probably to His Lordship's purpose. And the housemaid Mary got caught with one of Beckett's footmen in the stables and is out on the streets now. Her Ladyship is well pleased, as Beckett's summoned her old maid, Eleanor, to come and care for her."

Mercer nodded absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. Oscar seemed to realize his gossip was of little interest to Mercer, but there was an impish gleam in his eye – he had yet to reveal his best secret. He took on a bored tone and added, "Oh, yes, and Her Ladyship is with child."

"_What_?" Mercer exclaimed, suddenly paying attention again.

Oscar's face broke into a wide smile. "Delightful, isn't it?" he said, rubbing his hands together again. "His Lordship is ecstatic."

"I would imagine so," Mercer said, looking quite amazed. "I suppose I ought to go congratulate them."

"I would, were I you," Oscar said, "Which, fortunately, I am not."

Mercer didn't question the odd remark; Oscar was apt to say strange things of that variety. "Thank you for the information, Oscar," he said as he hurried up the stairs. "Enjoy your nightly spying."

"Oh, I always do," Oscar said with an evil little cackle.

Mercer took the stairs two at a time and strode rapidly down the hall to Beckett's quarters. The door was closed, but Mercer could hear voices within. He turned the knob and stepped inside the warmly lit room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Beckett and Victoria were sitting in Beckett's private parlor, just at the front of his quarters. Beckett was sitting on a couch towards the right wall of the room, and Victoria was lying serenely on the same couch with her head in his lap. Beckett was down to his shirtsleeves, his frock coat thrown idly over a chair at another corner of the room; Victoria was in her shift and her blonde hair was loose, some it hanging over her scar-covered face. They both glanced up at Mercer as he entered and closed the door.

"Is Oscar at his usual post?" Beckett inquired, running his fingers through Victoria's hair and then circling a curl about his finger.

"As always," Mercer said with a short nod.

Beckett looked slightly crestfallen. "Then I suppose you've already heard," he said.

"I have." Mercer looked down at Victoria and smiled. "Congratulations, Lady Beckett."

She smiled happily, her scars on her face shifting across her flesh. Her fingers lightly moved to touch her lower belly, an almost protective gesture. "Thank you," she said. She glanced up at Beckett and said firmly, "It's a girl."

"It's a boy," Beckett said certainly.

"It isn't," Victoria said, settling her cheek against Beckett's thigh. "It's a girl, and I'll laugh when you're wrong."

"I won't be wrong," Beckett retorted. "I never am, am I?"

"You've been wrong about a lot of things," Victoria informed him. "This is just another one to add to the list."

"He's _my_ baby."

"She's _my_ baby too, and she's inside _my_ body, not yours," Victoria fired back.

"Touché, my dear," Beckett said with a laugh. He glanced up at Mercer. "I trust everything went according to plan?"

"Yes, sir," Mercer said with a nod. "Damarah will do almost anything for money – as proven by her occupation."

"Don't blame her for her lot in life," Victoria said reproachfully. "If you had no other way to survive, I'm sure you'd turn to such low means as prostitution too."

"I don't imagine many people would leap at the opportunity to bed me," Mercer said dryly, "So that would seem an unlikely venue for money-making."

"For you, at least," Victoria chuckled. "It seems more likely that you'd hire yourself out to kill bothersome people."

"How very astute of you," Mercer said with a grin; "That's exactly what I used to do."

"Why am I not surprised?" Victoria said, rolling her eyes. She let them flutter closed and ran a hand over Beckett's knee. "What should we name her?" she asked.

"Alexander," Beckett answered instantly.

"That's a boy's name," Victoria said with a frown.

"Exactly my point, precious."

"It's _not _a boy," Victoria said crossly. "It's a girl, and if you want to name her Alexander so badly then we can call her Alexandra."

"No, we can't," Beckett said, "Because I want my son to be named Alexander. Having a daughter named Alexandra and a son named Alexander just doesn't seem wise."

"So you admit to the possibility that you may be wrong about the child's sex?" Victoria said slyly.

"No, I _expect_ that someday I will have a daughter as well as a son, although all sons would be preferable, and so naming one of said future daughters Alexandra is out of the question," Beckett replied, tugging on Victoria's hair just to irritate her.

"Stop it," she said impatiently, reaching up and catching his hand in hers. She pulled his arm down over her shoulder and held his fingers loosely, relaxing again. "Fine, we won't call her Alexandra. What about Helena?"

"For whenever you happen to give me a daughter, I think that would be suitable."

"I'm carrying your daughter right now," Victoria said.

"You're not," Beckett said smugly.

Victoria glanced in exasperation at Mercer. "Mercer, tell him to shut up, will you?" she asked.

"Mmmm…" Mercer pretended to ponder for a moment, then grinned and shook his head. "No."

"Miserable little whore's kitling," Victoria grumbled.

"Don't insult him just because I'm right," Beckett said, smirking widely at her.

She glared up at her husband. "Dandyprat," she said spitefully.

The smirk evaporated and Beckett snarled slightly. "I _hate_ that term," he grumbled.

"That would be why I used it," Victoria said with a bright laugh. She sat up and stretched lazily. "I suppose baby and I should go to bed," she said, laying a hand over her belly. "We need our rest, after all."

"I suppose you should," Beckett agreed. He caught her wrist as she made to stand and tugged her back down to him, kissing her with such intensity that Mercer turned around and stared very intently at a painting on the opposite wall. Beckett released her after a few moments and murmured, "Good night, love," before she turned and floated out of the room.

Beckett was still staring after her when Mercer turned around again. Mercer was hesitant to interrupt Beckett's thoughts, but he was tired and had much to do still. Finally he said, "The ship's ready to leave tomorrow morning."

Beckett glanced sharply at his minion. "Good," he said after a pause, sitting up straighter and looking every inch the businessman again. "It's a pity you couldn't be here for the purchase of Morgan's Book. I'd almost like you to stay, just to ensure it makes its way to me properly."

"We can't delay any longer, sir," Mercer warned. "The _Redemption_ is far ahead of us by now. They may already have reached their destination. We can't afford to waste any more time if we're to catch them."

Beckett nodded. "You're the best I have, Mercer," he said, glancing up at the clerk. "I know you'll find them."

Mercer nodded shortly in acceptance of the compliment. "Is there anything you'd like me to do before I go, sir?" he asked.

"No, I don't believe so," Beckett said, glancing towards his bedroom. "Finish your preparations for tomorrow." He paused. "You've talked with Lieutenant Savage then?"

"I have. I think I'll enjoy working with him." Mercer paused. "He's very… _ruthless_, I gather."

Beckett chuckled. "He is indeed," he said. "It's ironic; most of his family is very well behaved. His sisters are charming women, for one. But not him…" Beckett shook his head and grinned mercilessly. "I think he'll be perfect for the job," he said. "He'll be certain to catch up with the _Redemption_, and he won't be squeamish about their execution, either."

Mercer nodded. "They will all be eliminated, sir." He tilted his head slightly to the side as he studied his master. "This… treasure, sir. The Hand. Do you think it's dangerous?"

"I don't know; that's why I need you to bring it back." Beckett stood, glancing towards his bedroom.

Mercer followed his gaze with amusement. "I'm sorry, sir; I'm keeping you from your bed."

Beckett quashed a smile. "It was a busy day; I'm rather… exhausted," he said, quirking a brow.

Mercer snorted. "I'm sure _that's_ why you're so anxious to retire," he said sardonically. "I'll leave you for the night. Will you be awake in the morning when I leave?"

"Most likely, but I don't know that I'll be about yet."

Mercer nodded. "Very well, sir. Then this is good-bye for now."

Beckett glanced at him and studied him carefully. "Bring me back that treasure," he ordered. "And the informant Bussiere, too, if you think he'll be useful. Destroy the others. And if you happen to find Sparrow…"

"I'll bring him back for you, too," Mercer promised darkly.

Beckett's hands clenched momentarily into fists; then he recovered, turning coolly away from his clerk. "I'll see you upon your return, then," he said aloofly.

Mercer bowed slightly in acknowledgement; when he rose, Beckett was already closing the door to his office behind him.

* * *

Two months. Two months since Victoria's return to London; two months since Mercer's decision to hunt down the _Redemption_; two months since life had fallen back into a relatively normal pattern.

Two months, and no word yet on Morgan's Book.

Beckett slipped into his bedroom, preoccupied with thoughts of the aforementioned Book and its increasing importance in his life. With a child on the way – a son, he assured himself – it was even more important for him to learn Morgan's magic and rid his wife of the marks left upon her. Victoria had certainly been behaving valiantly, and perhaps she had grown used to the scars by now. Beckett certainly had adjusted to them, to the point that they had simply become part of her face. But he wanted to introduce his son to the aristocracy, and the aristocracy would be expecting to see the mother as well as the boy.

He frowned as he removed his waistcoat and tossed it over a chair. Still no word from Thompson, and yet he was supposed to have returned already. If Mercer was staying in England, then Beckett would have sent him after the apparently wayward merchant – but no, Mercer had another task on his hands, one greater and potentially more important even than that of finding and learning to use Morgan's book.

The Hand…

The Book…

The child…

He jumped a little when Victoria slid her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "Where are you, my Lord?" she murmured, planting a kiss just below his ear. "Come back to me…"

He smiled, glancing over his shoulder at her and lightly kissing her forehead. "I was thinking about our son," he told her. "And Morgan's Book, and the Hand…"

"Hmm." Victoria stepped back and carefully removed Beckett's wig, setting it on its stand nearby Beckett's wardrobe. "A good deal to have on your mind just before bed."

"Our situation, my pet, is a very complex one." He turned to her and kissed her before she could object to being called 'pet.' "If Thompson doesn't return with the Book soon, I may go after him myself," he said ominously.

"As long as you take me with you."

"I can't," Beckett said. "Not now."

"Why not?" Victoria asked indignantly.

Beckett glanced significantly at her lower abdomen. "I don't believe Alexander would approve," he said.

"I'm sure _Helena_ is fine with it," Victoria replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Out of the question," Beckett said flatly. "You'll be sick, we'll constantly be in danger, and you and my _son_ will be the most vulnerable of us all."

"So you'll leave me here alone and undefended despite my vulnerability?" Victoria fired back.

Beckett lightly touched her cheek. "I don't have plans to go after him yet," he said, "So let's not maul each other to death based on what may or may not happen."

Victoria chuckled. "I can accept that," she said. She looked thoughtful. "You know, I don't think she should be named Helena," she said finally.

"No?" Beckett wrapped his arms around her waist and started to kiss her neck. "Since he'll be named Alexander, that shouldn't be a problem."

Victoria huffed irritably. "Pretend for one second that I might be right," she ordered. "I think… I want to name her Perthina."

Beckett jerked back. "No," he said forcefully.

"Yes," Victoria said stubbornly. "The poor girl deserves some kind of monument to her memory."

"And that monument is not going to be my daughter," Beckett said harshly.

"I want to remember her."

"_I_ don't," Beckett said angrily, turning away. He drew in several deep breaths and then said, in a considerably lighter tone, "It doesn't matter anyway, because the baby is a boy."

"You're impossible," Victoria said, but fondly. Apparently she thought it wise to drop the subject, because she reached out, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said reassuringly, "I'm sure Thompson will be back soon with the Book."

Beckett turned to her with a nasty glower. "He'd better, or there'll be hell to pay," he said. He glanced at her, and the look softened. "You should be sleeping, my Lady," he said, lightly stroking her cheek.

Victoria quirked an eyebrow at him. "Was that your plan for the night, sir?" she questioned impertinently. "Or did you have… other ideas?"

Beckett, characteristically, smirked. He caught her around the waist and breathed in her ear, "Why don't I show you…?"


	2. The Sea Siren

CHAPTER 2

The morning dawned clear, bright, and warmer than expected – a good sign for the start of a voyage. Mercer felt pleased as he stood in front of his house on Beckett's property, watching the sunrise with an inscrutable expression. Through his dealings with Beckett and their regular dabbling in the world of the occult, Mercer had adopted some small superstitions – and he took the good weather as a promise of his success on his mission.

Not that he had expected to fail to begin with…

Mercer stared a few moments longer at the sunrise, then began to stride swiftly across the lawn towards the house. Chances were that Lieutenant Savage was waiting at the doors – or, worse yet, that he'd already been let in and Oscar Boddie was now spying on him through the keyhole in the parlor doors. That seemed the most likely option, and the thought made Mercer quicken his pace.

Anything he required had already been packed up and sent down to the docks; his weapons were securely hidden on his person, and he was wearing his favorite weather-beaten suit. Mercer didn't own many suits – he had about three to change in and out of when he felt like wearing a different dark color, or when one had a tear, and one suit for special occasions that he kept in Beckett's rooms for fear of damaging it. The black dress clothes almost never came out; the last occasion he had worn them for had been Beckett's wedding, and before that – he couldn't even recall. That suit was still safely tucked away in his employer's room, as he was more than certain he wouldn't be needing it on his mission.

The servants were already stirring about the house when Mercer entered; there were two cooks, and both of them were bustling about the kitchens ordering other servants about. Maids were busy making sure all the rooms were in order, a few busily setting the table for breakfast. Mercer caught sight of one servant girl carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a cup out of the kitchen, and he pushed his way through the rushing servants to follow her. As he had suspected, she was heading in the direction of the parlor; Savage must already have arrived.

Lieutenant Ralston Savage was a personal favorite of Beckett's, and if he hadn't come from a family wealthier than Mercer's, he probably would have taken Mercer's job a long time before. Savage, however, wasn't interested in playing the role of clerk; he had higher aspirations for himself. Savage was unusually fond of blood and war, and so at his father's request Beckett had found the younger man a position in the Royal Navy – specifically, the rather large section of the Royal Navy assigned to protect the Company's ships. Beckett had also orchestrated the young man's rapid promotion to Lieutenant, a promotion that had caused much resentment. Everyone knew that his rank was given solely due to Beckett's caprice and not Savage's personal merit, and so the older, more experienced lieutenants and admirals despised him and tended to look down on him.

Savage made few friends because of this obvious favoritism on Beckett's part, but there were other reasons Savage was less than admired. He was blunt, coarse, and rude, ignoring every standard of decency and offending virtually everyone he met. The only person in the aristocracy whom he hadn't offended at one point or another was Rosemary Wellington, soon to be Rosemary Presbery, and that was because she could be equally coarse and rude herself.

Still, Mercer looked forward to working with Savage. The black-haired, scar-faced youth was as hardhearted as Mercer himself, and Mercer believed they would get along nicely – at least, most of the time.

When Mercer arrived at the parlor doors, Oscar Boddie was staring into the keyhole, just as Mercer had suspected he would be. "Well?" Mercer asked the butler.

"He's a brute," Oscar said, a great deal of dislike in his tone. "An uncouth, miserable, loutish brute."

"I could have told you that," Mercer snorted, shoving Oscar out of the way. "He'll be gone in a few minutes, so you needn't look so disgruntled. Let me deal with him."

Oscar willingly stepped back from the door as Mercer threw it open. The clerk strode into the room and paused just behind the servant girl who had entered before him with tea.

"Is this _tea?_" Savage was saying, staring at the tray as though it were a loathsome insect. "What the hell makes you think I want _tea_ at this ungodly hour of the morning? If you _really_ gave a damn about me you'd bring me a _real_ drink, like port."

The servant girl looked bewildered, but murmured some placating apologies and turned to rush out with the tray of tea, almost running directly into Mercer. Fortunately he caught the tray before she could drop it. "Bring it up to Lord and Lady Beckett," Mercer advised her. "Beckett will want tea; he might as well take it now."

The servant, who normally would have run as fast as she could in the opposite direction from Mercer, smiled gratefully at him and then hurried out.

When she was gone, Mercer turned to Lieutenant Savage with a smile. "Good morning, Lieutenant," he said amiably, holding out his hand to shake.

"Mercer," Savage said with a short nod. He didn't take Mercer's hand. "The servants around this place could use a little work. I expected Beckett to have the best, you know – him being as wealthy as he is…"

"They _are_ the best," Mercer said, a little perturbed that Savage had ignored the attempted handshake. "They're simply trained to Beckett's taste, not yours."

"Hmmph," Savage said, standing and brushing off the coat marking his station with irritation. "Someday I'll have servants who know exactly what to do for me."

"I'm sure," Mercer drawled. He knew Savage had aspirations to become a second Beckett, but he doubted that such hopes would ever be achieved. Beckett, for one, would never allow it; and Beckett was the only one helping Savage attain any sort of rank. Savage also wasn't nearly clever enough to rise to the heights that Beckett had.

Savage didn't seem to notice Mercer's disdain. "Well, are you ready to set off then?" he asked, glancing about the room, taking in all the rich furnishings and expensive artwork from all over the world.

"Whenever you are, Lieutenant," Mercer said with a short nod.

Savage turned to him and looked him over for a moment. Mercer also took Savage in; he would have appeared young, Mercer was sure, if it hadn't been for the enormous amount of scars crisscrossing his skin. All of them were from tavern brawls and fights with the scum living around the wharves; Savage had even boasted to Mercer when they'd first met that he had a very personal scar from a whore. Whether or not this was true, Mercer did not know, nor did he want to know.

Besides his scars, Savage also had a mane of dark black hair that he pulled back into a ponytail. Today he wore a powdered wig over it to represent his rank, but tufts of his black locks could still be seen. His uniform was dirty and patched up; he didn't take care of it at all. In fact, it almost seemed that he disdained everything that represented his rank, even though rank was all he desired. Apparently he believed he could obtain higher and higher statuses without having to wear the trappings.

"Right," Savage said abruptly. "The carriage is waiting. Best not let the horses get too impatient."

Mercer inclined his head in agreement, then watched as Savage strode quickly past him. Mercer waited a few moments before following the Lieutenant out the door.

Almost as soon as he'd stepped out from the parlor, he heard two sharp exclamations, and then Savage began to curse. "Watch where you're going, you bloody chittiface!" he swore.

"Sorry, sir," a familiar voice murmured softly. A small figure hurriedly started to make its way past Savage, but before it could slip by Mercer, he blocked the way.

The small figure looked up at him, blinked, and colored. "'Morning, Mr. Mercer," the figure said politely.

He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Victoria," he said in a very, very low voice. "Mr. Thorne," he said more loudly. "What are you doing up so early?"

Victoria flushed, her scars turning very white. "I… I went for a ride on one of the horses," she said, biting her lip. "I couldn't sleep. I thought it might get my mind off things. If that explains the clothes any." She motioned to man's suit she was wearing, a raggedy and patched up thing probably borrowed from one of the servants' wardrobes. Beckett owned nothing nearly so plain or tattered as what she was wearing.

Mercer didn't look as though he believed her. "Is that so?" he said, eyes boring into her. "Does Lord Beckett know about this?"

She stared petulantly up at him. "I suppose he'll be finding out soon enough, won't he?" she said.

Almost on cue, Beckett's voice echoed from upstairs. "Mercer!"

Mercer growled slightly and glanced up the stairs. Beckett was hurrying down them, dressed in his undershirt, breeches, and a loose silk banyan. "Mercer, Tori's -!" Beckett started, but Mercer shot him a severe glance.

"If you're looking for Victor Thorne, sir, he's right here," he said, turning Victoria around to face Beckett. Victoria flushed and stared up at him, wearing her most innocent look.

Beckett's eyes darted over Victoria, taking in her unusual garb and her attempt at an angelic expression, and said flatly, "Upstairs, Thorne."

"But I was just on my way to -!" Victoria started to protest.

"_Now, _Thorne," Beckett snapped.

Victoria huffed and stomped away from Mercer, heading up the stairs and pausing only to glare briefly at her husband before continuing on her way.

Beckett glanced at Savage and nodded shortly. "Lieutenant," he said.

"My Lord," Savage said with a bow. "Good morning, sir."

"I trust you'll forgive me if I leave you now," Beckett said, turning away. "I have someone that needs to be dealt with."

"Plainly," Savage agreed. "Don't let him off, sir."

"Oh, I won't," Beckett said darkly. He looked at Mercer and added, "Good-bye, Mercer. Good journey."

"Thank you, sir," Mercer said. "I'll see you upon my return."

Beckett waved a hand, but didn't seem to have heard; he was already in the hall and moving towards his quarters.

Mercer chuckled to himself as he turned back to Savage, who was frowning. "Something amusing, Mr. Mercer?" Savage inquired.

"Thorne, Lieutenant, has quite a way of getting himself in trouble with Beckett," Mercer said with a secretive smile. "That's all."

Savage started out the door, looking thoughtful. "Thorne," he said slowly. "Isn't that Lady Beckett's maiden name?"

"Yes," Mercer said, quashing another laugh. "It's her… second cousin. Three times removed. Or something like that."

Savage frowned. "Seems odd that Beckett would keep him around," he said.

"Oh, yes," Mercer said seriously. "It's more due to his wife, you see…"

"Ah, yes," Savage said with a knowing nod. "If I ever marry, I won't let _my_ wife have hold of me like that. In fact I'm rather surprised that Beckett has let _his_ wife go to his head that way. He seems so in control most of the time."

"You'd understand if you knew her," Mercer said shortly.

Savage snorted. "It doesn't matter," he said, climbing into the carriage. Mercer followed him, closing the door, and they started off. "Beckett should be able to control her no matter what she's like."

Mercer chuckled. "Think what you will, Lieutenant," he said with a shake of his head. "But I'd like to see _you_ try and take on Lady Beckett."

"I'd beat her down in a matter of moments," he boasted.

"Ha!" Mercer laughed. "You're in for a surprise if you think she's that docile." Savage looked ready to retort, but Mercer interrupted. "You were going to share with me a few details about the ship."

"Ah, yes," Savage said, his eyes lighting. "The_ Sea Siren_. She's my one true love, I swear it, Mercer; she runs swift through the water. Cuts through it like a knife. She's armed to the teeth and a beauty to look at. No pirate ship can match her for excellence."

"So I've heard," Mercer said. "Any cargo aboard her?"

"Some items for trade," Savage said, waving a hand idly in the air. "Mostly weapons and the like, since we're to be fighting with pirates; but the hold has enough trade items in it to make a goodly profit. I'll need you to check and make certain all the cargo's there when the ship takes off."

Mercer's eyes narrowed; he was in command of the mission by Beckett's orders, and tasks like checking the cargo were meant for lower officers. "You can give the duty to one of your crew," he said coldly. "I'll be busy with preparations."

"So will my crew," Savage replied. "Most of your preparations can wait until we're further out to sea; the crew itself will be busy preparing the ship. Besides, I don't know that I can trust any of them not to steal some of the cargo."

Mercer cocked a brow at him. "And you trust me, Lieutenant?"

"I trust Beckett, and he trusts you," Savage answered. "Though I admit I'm not sure why. But your loyalty to Beckett is so total that you'd probably chop your own head off for him – don't bother denying it, everyone can see it – so I doubt you'll steal anything from him."

Mercer glowered at him from the opposite side of the carriage, but said nothing to protest. He had better things he could be doing when the ship set out to sea, but checking the cargo in the hold would give him some time alone – which would likely be a rarity along the journey. At the moment, Mercer felt like brooding, anyway, and checking the cargo would allow him to do that unhindered. "Very well," he said finally, glancing out the window as they passed through London. His eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of the home outside the window; it was the Whitlock mansion, standing tall and forbidding a good distance from the road.

"The Whitlocks are a wealthy bunch," Savage said, noting Mercer's stare. "Do you know, I proposed to their daughter after they found out she was ruined? But then Lawless stepped in and proposed. The clinker's got more of a fortune than I, so of course he won the bawd. She's a bloody whore. Do you know, her nickname's Cat? Oddly appropriate, since the poor like to call prostitutes 'cats.'"

It took more willpower than Mercer was aware he possessed to keep from removing his pistol from its safe place in his belt and shooting the man sitting across from him. "Does anyone know the situation with her?" he asked, somehow managing to keep his voice entirely neutral.

"You mean who the father of the whore's kitling is? No," Savage said with a cruel laugh. "No, nobody knows. And she won't say, neither. Somebody shut her up, and shut her up well…"

Mercer fleetingly wondered if Beckett had threatened Cat if she breathed a word of the child's father to anyone, but he pushed the thought from his mind. He knew that it was likely Beckett had done exactly that, but he didn't want to consider it at the moment. "Lawless probably just wants her for the fortune," he said finally, offhandedly.

"'Course he does," Savage said, removing a flask from his coat and taking a long drink from it. "Why else would anyone marry the chit?"

Mercer could name any number of reasons why he would want to marry Cat, but he remained obstinately silent. Finally, he mentioned, "She's a friend of Lady Beckett, you know."

"Is she?" Savage said. "I'd heard as much. I hope Beckett discontinued the acquaintance. It's hardly suitable for the wife of such a prominent member of the Company to be fraternizing with filth like that coming-woman."

Mercer was quickly beginning to realize that if he continued this line of conversation, someone would end up with a bullet hole through his skull, and it wouldn't be him. "What sort of cargo is the _Vengeance_ carrying?" he asked.

Savage looked disappointed at the change in topics. "Nothing very exciting," he said with a shrug. "Some fabric, some precious stones and metalwork and pretty jewelry. I think there are a few carpets from elsewhere in the world going on board. Not that the Indians want them, of course, but the wealthier ones will buy up in spades. They so want to be like us, you know."

Mercer ignored Savage as he continued on about the Indian people and their various faults as he saw them. Mercer's mind was rather preoccupied with other things – namely, a certain sixteen-year-old brunette and the child she was carrying…

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice they'd reached the wharves until Savage had already gotten out of the carriage, still making rude remarks on Indians and foreigners in general. Mercer blinked, shook his head briefly to clear his hazy head, and then leapt out after Savage, striding down the docks towards a large and very impressive ship. "And there's my love," Savage said with a tender smile. "The _Sea Siren_. She's a beauty, isn't she?"

"A remarkable vessel, to be sure," Mercer said, and he meant it. The _Sea Siren _was huge, well armed, and swarming with well-trained Royal Navy crewman. Mercer noted a few of the Company's merchants also boarding her; apparently Beckett planned to make other profits besides those that the Hand would bring him. "Is she almost ready to leave?"

"Whenever I – _you_ give the order," Savage said, only catching himself when he saw Mercer's nasty glare. He cringed slightly as he spoke, as though the thought of someone else being in charge made him physically ill.

Mercer pushed his way past the Lieutenant, thoroughly irritated. "Then gather everyone you need, and we'll start off at once," he said. He paused, then turned back to Savage with narrowed eyes. "And give me the list of the cargo, so I can check it for you," he added.

Savage smirked. "Of course," he said, pulling the list from his coat pocket. "Enjoy yourself, Mr. Mercer."

"I will," Mercer said a bit petulantly. He turned and stormed up the ramp, soon disappearing into the dark hold of the ship.

* * *

Beckett threw open the door to his bedroom, thoroughly prepared to beat his wife to death with the cane he occasionally carried for fashionable purposes. He was, therefore, simultaneously furious and delighted to be greeted by the sight of Victoria perched primly on the edge of their bed, wearing only an almost see-through undershirt and nothing else. She smiled pleasantly at him and said, "Good morning, my Lord."

Damn. She'd even used his title. He _loved_ it when she used his title. "Don't think you're going to escape punishment by behaving like that," he warned her, eyes narrowing.

Victoria's eyes widened slightly, and she blinked innocently at him. "Am I in some sort of trouble, my Lord?" she inquired, standing and folding her hands behind her back.

Beckett's eyes started to travel downward, towards the sharp v-neck of the undershirt that plunged far lower than any gown Victoria owned and afforded him a most excellent view. Forcefully (and reluctantly) he jerked them back up to meet her gaze. "Oh, yes," he said nastily. "Yes, you little harridan, you _are_ in trouble!"

"But what have I done?" Victoria cried, pressing a hand to her bosom as though to proclaim her blamelessness.

"Oh, stop it," Beckett snapped. "You know perfectly well what you've done."

Victoria dropped her act and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't see anything wrong with my behavior this morning," she said airily.

"I suppose you think slipping off at any ungodly hour of the morning is acceptable?" Beckett said sardonically.

"I don't see how it should bother you, no."

"If you weren't carrying my son, I might beat you senseless right now," Beckett growled. "All right, fine. Imagine this for me: imagine that you wake up in the morning and find that the one person to whom you have pledged your soul, your entire life, has mysteriously disappeared, and your child, your own flesh and blood, is gone with that person. You have no idea exactly to where they have disappeared; all you know is that they've gone. _Now_ tell me if you see nothing wrong with your actions."

To his surprise, Victoria actually looked a little ashamed. "I'm sorry," she said softly, padding quietly over to him and embracing him. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just… needed to slip away for a bit, to clear my head."

Beckett wasn't ready to forgive her just yet. "And the men's clothes?" he asked dryly.

Victoria giggled. "I just wanted to be comfortable," she said. "Have you ever tried riding sidesaddle? And anyway, if I had planned to go out dressed properly as a woman, it would have taken me all morning, and by then something would have happened to prevent me from going on a ride."

"All right, fine," Beckett conceded with a sigh. "That makes some shred of sense, I suppose." He studied her carefully, then said, "But I'm not certain I believe you."

She stepped back from him, looking insulted. "Why not?" she demanded. "I have a good deal to think about at the moment – the baby, the book, Cat and Rosemary's marriages that I can't attend due to _your_ command, Mercer's mission, Sparrow's whereabouts…"

Beckett tilted his head to the side, studying her penetratingly. Finally, he nodded. "I suppose you do have a good deal to mull over," he murmured, stepping towards her. She glared coolly at him, tapping her fingers against her folded arms. He sighed again and said, _very_ reluctantly, "Maybe… I overreacted."

"_Maybe?_"

"Fine," he snapped, "I _did_ overreact, and I'm sorry. Happy now?"

Her face broke into a radiant smile. "Why, yes, actually, I am," she said, her arms dropping to her sides again. "You _never_ apologize to me."

"Don't expect it to happen again anytime soon," Beckett warned, finally allowing his gaze to drop downwards. "And I think you owe _me_ an apology for standing here this entire time in nothing but that flimsy little top."

She smirked. "Distraction is as good a negotiating tactic as any," she said.

"I taught you too bloody well," he growled, reaching out to grab her wrist and jerking her into his arms. "I suggest you make up for this morning's momentary panic _very _thoroughly, Tori, if you want me to be any sort of generous to you today."

"And how, exactly, would I do that?" Victoria asked in amusement. She leaned forward, kissed him rather intensely, then pulled back and breathed, "Will that do for a start?"

"For a start," Beckett replied, leaning forward to capture her lips again.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. "Message for you, sir," Oscar Boddie's voice said from behind the heavy wood.

Beckett snarled in displeasure, turning away from Victoria and throwing open the door. "And I don't suppose it can wait, can it?" he demanded.

Oscar blinked at his master. "Maybe it has _already_ waited, sir," he suggested.

"Oscar Boddie, if you have been spying through the keyhole this entire time, I will personally take a dagger and stab out both your eyes," Beckett threatened.

The blood drained from Oscar's face. "No spying," he said, his voice cracking in fear. He practically threw an envelope at Beckett and cried, "Must go, duties to attend to, call if you need me!" With that he charged out of the rooms and down the stairs, clomping loudly about the house in his desperation to get away.

Beckett snorted and slammed the door shut. "Miserable little mole," he muttered. He threw the message onto Victoria's dressing table and stepped towards her again, a grin blossoming on his face. "Now, where were we?" he purred, catching her around the waist and planting a kiss on her throat.

Victoria, however, had moved on already. "Is that – is that Rose's handwriting?" she exclaimed, pulling away from Beckett and hurrying over to her dresser.

"I don't know," Beckett said irritably, glaring after her. "But if it is, then it's certainly not important."

"It _is _from Rose!" Victoria cried, staring at the envelope. She tore it open and dropped into her chair, eyes rapidly scanning the page.

Beckett tapped his fingers impatiently against the bedpost, waiting for her to finish. "Well?" he demanded when he thought she'd stopped.

She looked up at him, blinked, then handed him the letter. "I think you ought to read this," she said.

He snatched it from her, reading hurriedly through the note. What it said made his blood boil:

_Lord Cutler Beckett:_

_Whether or not you realize it, Victoria and I have been friends since we were only girls. We've always been there for each other, regularly spending weeks at a time in each other's company and always together at social occasions. The separation you are putting us through, therefore, is all the more unbearable for me._

_Whether or not you are possessed of a heart, I know you care about Victoria, inasmuch as you could ever care for a pet. Yet this isn't even enough to sway you into letting me visit her. So, I must warn you: I refuse to marry Lord Presbery until you have let me see Victoria. I will wait any length of time, years, if I have to; and believe me, that is no small sacrifice on my part. I love Will Presbery, but I love Tori too, and I won't let you keep her confined and hidden away from everyone she loves due to your own selfish whims._

_I am ready to see her any time you will permit it. I am sure Lord Presbery will soon be about to make his case to you; as you can imagine he is none too pleased with the situation. If you do not listen to either him or me, my father will be sure to follow; and Tori, no doubt, will hear of this even if you don't show her the letter and will beg and plead with you. Eventually you will wear down and give in, so you might as well let me see her now._

_I remain your obedient servant._

_Rosemary Wellington_


	3. An Unexpected Stowaway and an Argument

**A/N: This may be a slightly belated note, but throughout this story I've been using some 18th century slang, the definitions of which can all be found at this absolutely marvelous website: http: / www. from old books. org /Nathan Bailey - Canting Dictionary /transcription .html. Take out the spaces and go visit if you'd like to!**

CHAPTER 3

From inside the hold of the _Sea Siren_, Mercer could hear the ocean's waves beating rhythmically against the hull. The sound steadied him, eased his mind and settled his uneasy spirit. The sight of Catherine's house, the wealth in which she had lived – and the thought of the fate that awaited her in the future – had admittedly unnerved him.

He had no idea what sort of husband Drake Lawless would be, but he could imagine well enough. If all the man wanted was the Whitlock fortune, he would hardly treat young Catherine with kindness. He would take her money, and he would at best leave her to her own devices. At worst…

Mercer pictured his sister, her thin, gaunt face and her eyes full of pain and fear. At worst, he knew, Cat would end up like her.

That thought disturbed him far more than he thought it should. He had sworn to himself, when Cat had first stopped appearing at his home, that he would stop caring; and to some degree he felt he had. He had been sneering in his remarks about her to Beckett, when he talked about her; he hadn't asked Victoria to contact her, hadn't even entertained the thought of revealing their affair to anyone; and he'd almost – _almost_ – stopped thinking about her. But there were still moments when her face would flash across his mind, quick as lightning, and he would feel a searing pain that he should not have experienced, if he truly had ceased to love her.

The morning's viewing of her house had proven to him that his feelings were not what he had thought them to be. It was apparent that Catherine still mattered to him – and that was a problem, particularly on this mission. He couldn't afford to be distracted, least of all by a mere girl. He needed to clear his head, to forget about her and move forward. To pay attention to the now.

The now, of course, was not very interesting, as it consisted of checking the cargo in the hold against the master list of what was supposed to be on board. Thus far, he had seen only weapons – boxes of pistols, boxes of rifles with bayonets, boxes full of cannonballs, casks of powder. There were swords to be checked, and knives, too, still – and then there was the merchant cargo, the valuable trade items that would bring in profit even if Mercer and Savage should fail on their mission.

Failing, of course, meant certain death, either by the pirates or by Beckett – so failure was not really an option.

Mercer sighed, threw the cargo list down atop a box of bayonets, and stormed to the stairs leading upward, dropping down onto one of them and hiding his head in his hands. Savage's remarks wouldn't stop echoing in his head. The horrible things the Lieutenant had said… well, granted, he was more vulgar than most, but that didn't mean the entire aristocracy wasn't thinking the same thing. They didn't know the details, didn't know of Cat's innocence or Mercer's sincerity; in all actuality they didn't know anything, other than that Cat was ruined, apparently by her own choice, and that she wouldn't tell anyone who the father of her child was. What were they supposed to think, really, with so little to go on?

And why _was _she keeping silent, anyway? Out of love for him? He couldn't manage to assure himself that she cared that deeply for him. He was almost as old as her father, after all; he wasn't good-looking, not remotely charming, not even wealthy enough to make up for that lack of charisma. He had nothing to his name except Beckett, and Beckett would certainly never defend Mercer if it were to come out that he was responsible for Catherine's downfall. Fear, then? Fear that he would be killed, that she would be even more rejected and alone?

Silently the unhappy clerk wondered exactly what Cat was up to at the moment. He wondered if she was still asleep despite the lateness of the hour, or if she was up wandering about her house, staring pensively out her window with that little, concerned frown she sometimes got when she was thinking seriously about something. He wondered what she looked like at the moment, what she was wearing, how much her belly had swelled – how tired and bedraggled and sad she appeared.

The sudden sound of boxes being disturbed made him look up. He frowned, peering into the darkened hold as his hand crept towards his pistol. He hadn't realized anyone else was below decks. As far as he knew he was the only one present in the hold. Unless, of course, there was a stowaway…

Mercer went totally still as more boxes shifted from the corner, hand poised to snatch the pistol the instant his adversary appeared. His eyes narrowed and his focus sharpened. He performed best, he felt, when he thought he was at odds with someone. When there was a threat, when there was danger, Mercer's body coiled like a spring, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of trouble. He monitored the corner carefully, fingers curved just above the pistol, ready to leap up as soon as the mysterious person below appeared.

The boxes made a final shift, and a small, short figure struggled to its feet, pushing its way through the boxes. Mercer's hand flew to the pistol and he jerked it out, cocking it and setting his finger at the trigger – but it dropped to his side when he saw who it was.

"_Catherine?_" he gasped in disbelief.

She gave a sharp cry and leapt back, eyes wide with fear, but the expression dissolved into relief when she saw him. "Oh, it's you," she said with a thankful sigh. "I had no idea who was moving about down here, and I thought they'd left…"

Mercer was torn between wanting to kill her and wanting to kiss her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he finally spat.

She looked wounded. "Tori told me you were leaving," she said, finally making her way out of the maze of cargo. She was wearing a relatively simple dress, plain black with no decorations – and in the flickering light of his lantern, Mercer was rather astonished to note how tiny she appeared, especially for being pregnant. "And both of us knew I couldn't stay with Lawless," Cat continued, appearing not to notice Mercer's gaze, "Especially after she told me some of his awful history…"

"You've been visiting Victoria?" Mercer said in a strangled voice. "And no one _noticed_?"

"Apparently not," Cat said with a triumphant smile. "She helped me get onboard this morning."

"Did she, now?" Mercer growled. "Lady Beckett and I are going to have a little chat this afternoon…"

Cat looked confused. "We're out to sea and won't be back to London for at least a few months," she pointed out. "So you won't see her this afternoon!"

"Oh, yes, I will," Mercer assured her, approaching her and taking her arm. "Because we are turning this ship around and bringing you back. _Right now._"

Catherine jerked her arm out of his grasp and glared stubbornly back at him. "No, we're not," she said, lifting her chin.

"Yes, we are," Mercer said through gritted teeth.

"We're _not_," Cat exclaimed angrily. "We're already too far out to sea."

"We aren't," Mercer said certainly. "And you can't go with us."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Why not?" Mercer exploded. "_Why not?_ One, you're _pregnant_, in case you had failed to notice; two, when Beckett finds out what's happened – and I can assure you he will – he'll beat Victoria senseless and _then_ go after me and you; three, your parents will doubtless have every mercenary in the country looking for you; and four, Lawless is not going to let a fortune like yours run away that easily!"

Cat, oddly enough, was smiling slightly. "May I rebut?" she asked politely.

Mercer blinked at her. "What?" he questioned, completely taken aback.

"Rebut," she said. "You know, respond to all your answers in such a way that proves them wrong?"

Mercer snorted. "You can _try_," he said.

She folded her hands innocently before her, lacing her fingers together. "All right, then," she said confidently. "Firstly, Tori is prepared to take a beating on my behalf. And even if Beckett is furious about the situation, they'll probably just fight about it, ignore each other for a month, then move on. As for me, Beckett technically has no power over my actions since I'm not directly related to him or living in his household. And for you – he can't really beat you because you didn't know this was going to happen. And about my parents: even _if_ they should have everyone on the lookout for me, it won't matter because I won't be in the country or even in Europe."

Mercer was glaring stoically at her. When she finished, he clapped in a bored manner. "Bra-_vo,_" he drawled. "Really, excellent, Miss Whitlock. But you still haven't addressed my first or last points."

Her face fell, and she hung her head. "Well…" she said. She turned away from him and said hurriedly, "The baby… the baby died."

"_What?_"

He couldn't see her face, but he could tell from her posture that she was ready to cry. "I was… I was visiting Lawless, you see, and we… we got in this fight. Because my father… well, he was asking me about the baby's father and who it was, but I wouldn't tell him – I couldn't. I was so afraid he'd order your death… so I said nothing. And he got angry, you see, and he… well, he disowned me from my inheritance."

Mercer blinked. "Oh…" he said quietly.

"I don't know if things will stay that way," Cat admitted. "I think… I think maybe someday he'll forgive me. But for the time being my cousin Richard is going to take the property… the title… the money… everything. So that answers your fourth point."

"And the baby?"

He saw her hands tighten on her arms, her fingers digging into her skin. "I… I had nowhere to go, so I went to Lawless," she said slowly. "I didn't know what else to do; Beckett wouldn't stain his reputation by taking in a ruined woman, no matter how much Victoria protested, and Rosemary was out of town with Presbery, and I was afraid to come and find you… so I went to him. I had to tell him I'd been disowned, anyway… and when I told him, we got into a shouting match, and then he pushed me, and… I fell."

"Fell?"

"Down the stairs. Yes."

Mercer closed his eyes tightly, his fists clenching as he imagined Cat's fall and the pain she must have gone through afterwards. "And so the child…"

"Died."

They stood in silence a few moments. "When was this?" Mercer finally managed to ask.

"A few weeks ago. I've been at Lawless' house, recovering, but I sent a message to Victoria and she brought me to the Rose House last week. She told me you were leaving."

"And so you decided to follow me."

She turned to him with wide, desperate eyes. "What else could I do?" she asked, stepping towards him. "I have nothing left in the world now, nothing except you. My parents have rejected me, my own fiancé won't have me, my best friend can't take care of me for fear of her husband's wrath, which is deadly indeed, as you well know…"

Mercer dropped onto the stairs and buried his face in his hands again. "What am I going to do with you, Catie?" he sighed.

She walked over to sit on the lowest stair by his feet. "It seems to me that you're going to take me with you," she said assuredly.

"I _can't_," he whispered. "You don't understand… you haven't seen… you don't realize -!"

"You're going to kill people," Cat said matter-of-factly.

Mercer looked up at her in amazement, momentarily stunned into silence. "Wha – how did you -?"

"Tori and I talked frequently over the past two months – more so since she so kindly took me in at the Rose House," Catherine said, straightening her skirt. "I know all about your history and the things that you do and plan to do for Beckett."

"And you _approve?_"

She frowned. "No, I don't," she said. "I don't like it at all, actually, and I'm sure I don't want to see you doing it. But it seems… well… in your blood."

Mercer shook his head in disbelief. "You, Catherine Whitlock, are absolutely out of your mind," he told her finally.

"I know," she sighed. "But you can see how desperate I was. Am. Somewhat. And it isn't as though I've come unprepared – I know about your sister and all that."

"Oh, God," Mercer groaned, realizing rather abruptly that Victoria must have told Catherine about Beckett's command to murder Perthina – and that Mercer had actually done it.

Cat tilted her head to the side, studying him carefully. "You really did kill her, didn't you?" she said.

Mercer stared into the dark of the hold. "Yes," he said bleakly.

She shuddered slightly. "Why?" she asked softly.

"Because I had to," he said simply.

She chewed her lip. "Do you regret it?"

He shrugged. "I didn't, really," he said, "Not when I thought she had intentionally betrayed Beckett. But things have changed a great deal these days…"

Catherine nodded. "So it seems," she murmured painfully. She looked up at him and admitted with great frankness, "After Tori told me everything I didn't want to see you ever again."

Mercer's gloved hands clenched into fists. "Then why did you come?" he asked tightly.

"I changed my mind." She reached tentatively upwards and laid her hand over his. "I can't think you're all bad," she said. "You didn't intend to hurt me, after all, and I believe you really cared about me."

"I did." The confession brought him no joy, only more anger. "But I hope you don't expect to draw out some kind of simpering, God-fearing gentleman from the depths of my soul. This is my life. _Beckett_ is my life, and doing what he asks… is how I live. That won't change no matter what happens to me."

Catherine's hand dropped away. "I… I know," she said, turning away.

Mercer glanced sharply at her. "No, you don't," he said certainly. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't think you could shape me into something else."

She shrugged. "Maybe that's not why I'm here," she said. "Maybe I'm just trying to escape a life in the streets – a life I don't want."

"Believe you me, Miss Whitlock, you don't want this life, either," Mercer said, standing. He started up the stairs. "Are you – are you _sure_ this is the right decision, Catie? Staying with me on board this ship?"

She looked up at him and nodded. "Yes," she said. "This is where I'm supposed to be. I can't go anywhere else, really…" She looked hopefully at him. "But you'll take care of me… I love you, and I think you love me… you'll keep me safe."

Mercer wasn't sure he _could_ keep her safe, but hearing her say that she loved him was more than enough compensation for the moment. "All right," he growled. "All right, so be it, stay. I'll… I'll do what I can for you." He studied her carefully. "You'll have to stay hidden, you know," he warned. "I'll look about and see if I can't find a better place for you, but in the meantime you'll have to stay here."

She nodded. "I can do that."

They stared at each other momentarily; then Cat vaulted up the few steps separating them and hugged him. Mercer stood momentarily frozen in surprise; then, uncertainly, he hugged her back. "Thank you," she murmured into his neck.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say to that, so instead of saying anything he pulled back and rushed up the stairs, away from the hold and away from her.

* * *

Beckett was receiving the cold shoulder from his wife, and he was damn unhappy about it.

They had spent the entire morning arguing about Rosemary's threats, with Victoria demanding that the Wellington heiress be permitted to visit and Beckett flat out refusing. "Presbery's marriage is not my concern," he'd said emphatically when Victoria had attempted to argue on the besotted Lord's behalf. "And that little chittiface is not stepping foot in my house _ever again_ if I have anything to say about it."

"You can't just lock me away like a prisoner!" Victoria had exclaimed

To which Beckett had replied simply: "Can't I?"

Well, Victoria had to admit that he had a point there. Obviously Beckett _could_ lock her away if he wished; didn't he do exactly that while courting her, after all? But that didn't stop her from being furious with him for pointing it out.

So she and her husband were currently not on speaking terms – a not-infrequent occurrence about their household, but unpleasant nonetheless. They were eating lunch in chilly silence, sitting across the table from one another with Beckett staring relentlessly at Victoria and Victoria coolly ignoring his intense gaze. Finally, he said to her, "She's not going to come see you, Victoria."

Victoria viciously stabbed at the meat on her plate. "Why not?" she inquired pleasantly, still refusing to look at him. "It's a perfectly reasonable request, you know."

"Reasonable? You think refusing to marry her own fiancé, a man she loves, no less, is _reasonable_?" Beckett demanded.

"She knows what she wants and she's bargaining hard to get it," Victoria replied evenly. "You should be proud of her."

"No. No I shouldn't," Beckett snapped. "Because, once again, she is interfering in _my_ business, and she has no right."

"I believe she does," Victoria said stiffly. "It involves a friendship that's very dear to both her and me."

"And why is it so dear to you, Miss Thorne?" Beckett asked. Finally, Victoria winced; he only called her _Miss Thorne_ when he was extremely angry. "Why do you insist on sullying your own mostly decent reputation as well as my flawless one by spending time with a harridan like her?"

"She's not a harridan!" Victoria exclaimed, throwing down her fork and finally looking directly at him. "She's my friend and I miss her and I want to see her, and plainly she wants to see me too!"

"I don't want her here!" Beckett snarled, also slamming his fork down. "And I thought we agreed that no one should see your face until it was healed."

"And God knows when that will be," Victoria retorted. "You haven't even heard from Thompson yet."

"I will soon enough," Beckett said assuredly.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Victoria huffed. "Rose is going to wonder when my face heals perfectly, with no scars at all. She'll start asking questions and nosing around even more. For that reason alone, you should let her visit me. Don't you agree, your Lordship?" The title had a sarcastic, unfriendly tone.

"No, I don't," Beckett said frigidly. "She can wait just like everyone else."

"No, she _can't_," Victoria said through gritted teeth. "It's not as if I'm asking to go to her wedding, Cutler."

"That, too, is absolutely out of the question."

"I _know,_" Victoria said irritably. "I don't plan on going and never have. But what about our daughter?"

"It's a boy, and what about him?" Beckett asked calmly.

"It's a _girl_, and I want Rosemary to know about her!" Victoria exclaimed. "I haven't been able to tell _anyone_ besides you, and I find that ridiculously unfair! I should be bragging to everyone about the news!"

"Proud to be displaying evidence of how good our marital relations are, are you?" Beckett sneered.

"You are an insufferable dandyprat," Victoria said disgustedly.

Beckett was livid with rage. "Call me that again, and you'll find yourself shackled in the cellar," he warned.

"So you're willing to put your daughter in danger for the sake of your pride?" Victoria fired back.

"My _son_ will be perfectly safe down there," Beckett said evenly. "And my order still stands."

Victoria was prepared to barrage him with another round of arguments, but at that moment Oscar Boddie shuffled in. "Lord Presbery here to see you, sir," he announced.

Victoria smirked across the table at her husband. "Does it, now?" she asked sweetly.

"Go to hell, wench," Beckett snarled at her.

Before Beckett could order Oscar to send Presbery away, the man himself hurried into the room, looking disheveled and displeased. "Beckett, Rosemary's out of her mind," Presbery said wearily, dropping into the chair next to Beckett's. "You have to make her stop."

"I'm sure I have no power over anything Miss Wellington does," Beckett said stiffly, tossing back some of the port in his glass.

"I'm quite sure you do," Presbery said impatiently. "And I think you know what I'm talking about."

"She can't see my wife," Beckett said flatly.

"But -!" Presbery protested.

"No, Presbery," Beckett said.

"If you'd just -!"

"No," Beckett repeated, closing his eyes tightly.

"Cutler, for pity's sake -!" Victoria cried.

"_No!_" Beckett shouted, slamming a fist on the table.

"Beckett, it's not that absurd of a request," Presbery said angrily. "She just wants to see -!" He glanced at Victoria, stopped speaking, and stared. "Dear God," he breathed, eyes flicking over the series of scars in horror.

Beckett glanced at his wife, then back at Presbery. "You see why I don't want Rose here?" he said quietly. "Seeing Victoria like this will be terrible for her."

Victoria flushed darkly, the scars on her skin standing out bright white against the ruddy flesh. "She knows they're there," she said, valiantly attempting not to show how deeply wounding Presbery's gawking was. "I don't see how it'll hurt her to see them."

"Oh, yes, Victoria darling," Beckett said sarcastically. "I'm sure it won't pain your dear friend in the slightest to see the damage done to you by the pirates, just as it won't pain you to the see look on her face when she first takes you in, and just as it's not paining you now to try and act brave under Presbery's scrutiny."

Presbery abruptly seemed to realize how rude he was being at this remark. He blinked, shook his head, cleared his throat nervously and said, "Nonsense, Beckett, they're not so bad."

Both Victoria and Beckett shot him disdainful looks.

"All right, fine, they're terrible," Presbery snapped. "And I'm sorry they're so bad, but there's not much you can do about them -!"

"There is, actually," Beckett said.

"Really?" Presbery looked amazed. "You've found some way to get rid of them?"

"I believe so, yes," Beckett said with a nod. "Which means no one need know of what's happened. Which is why Rose doesn't need to see her just yet."

Presbery groaned. "But, Beckett, the woman won't marry me until she has," he said pleadingly.

"Not my problem," Beckett said resolutely.

"Cutler, please," Victoria begged. "Even if it hurts me to see her expression when she looks at me, I'll at least have some company."

"Because I don't spend nearly enough of my time with you," Beckett retorted.

"Half the time _you're_ working!" Victoria bristled. "And even if you're not working, half the time we're together we're fighting each other!"

"Like right now," Presbery noted wryly. "Please, Lord Beckett -!"

Oscar peeped into the doorway again. "Um, sir?" he said timidly.

"What now?" Beckett sighed, running a hand over his eyes.

"Lord Whitlock's here to see you," Oscar said.

Beckett looked up in surprise. "What's _he_ want?" he asked.

Victoria leapt out of her chair. "I should go before he sees me," she said, hurriedly turning and running out of the room.

"Wait a minute -!" Beckett snapped, sitting up, but she was already gone. "Why do I get the feeling that wasn't the only reason she ran?" he growled. There came a knock on the door. "Enter," he said coldly.

Lord Whitlock burst into the room, looking harried. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked as though he'd been wearing his rumpled suit for days. "I'm looking for my daughter," he said, his voice cracking with exhaustion.

Beckett frowned. "Is she missing?" he asked.

Lord Whitlock momentarily looked confused. "No, no, I don't believe so," he said in puzzlement. "Lawless said she was staying here. She… she took a fall, I guess, and the baby died -!"

"What?" Beckett and Presbery exclaimed simultaneously.

Lord Whitlock stumbled to a chair and dropped down into it, hiding his face in his hands. "It's… the poor creature… my only daughter… I disowned her, sir," he burst out.

"You did – _why?_" Presbery gasped, even though Whitlock hadn't been speaking to him.

"Because she's sullied! Ruined!" Whitlock said, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis. "And… and I can't give my fortune to a creature like that. But… but she didn't know where to go, you see, and she went to Lawless, and I thought she was still staying there, but he told me she tripped on the hem of her dress down the stairs and that her child was taken from her by the Lord. And also that he wouldn't have her now that she was a penniless street urchin."

"The bastard," Presbery raged. "I _hate_ that man. You should hear the things he's done to Rosemary…"

"I'm sure that's not appropriate table conversation, Presbery," Beckett drawled.

"You shut up!" Presbery said passionately.

"That's a good way to earn a slow, painful death," Beckett warned, eyes narrowing.

"Gentlemen, please!" Whitlock begged. "I only came here to see my daughter."

Beckett turned back to him with a frown. "Why here?" he asked.

"Lawless said she had come here," Whitlock cried, beginning to sound hysterical. "Isn't she here?"

Beckett shoved his chair back and stood from it, his face a mask of cold fury. "Not as far as I know," he said. "I didn't give my permission for her to come. But then, I was never asked."

He started towards the door, but paused when he was met with a cry from Whitlock. "Wait! Where are you going?" the distraught father demanded.

Beckett didn't turn around. "To talk to my wife," he said icily. "Go home, Whitlock. When I've gotten the truth out of her I'll tell you what's happened."

Without another word, he set out towards the gardens to search for his errant wife.


	4. Of Pirates and Runaways

CHAPTER 4

Catherine was asleep under one of the cargo's many carpets when Mercer came down to the hold to retrieve her. He was on duty to guard the ship first – he had insisted, and Savage had been more than willing to permit it. As everyone else was asleep, he intended to bring Catherine up to the captain's cabin, where he had set up office. Savage, he recalled with a tiny smile, had been none-too-pleased with the arrangement; but it wasn't Savage's mission and he wasn't the commander appointed by Beckett to lead it. There was no real contest in the matter.

Mercer still hadn't decided how he was going to explain Cat's presence to the crewman, or even how she had gotten aboard. He did, however, have a temporary disguise for her – a small suit of men's clothes probably meant for a cabin boy, rough and worn but clean enough. Her hair would have to be tied back and, in all probability, largely cut off; she had quite a mass of hair that fell a little beyond her waist, when it was down.

Mercer had brought with him into the hold one of his knives and the suit of clothes, so that she could dress there. He didn't want to risk other crewmen seeing her as she was, particularly Savage. He was sure the Lieutenant would find any excuse to take the captain's cabin back, if nothing else, and gain himself a small bonus with Beckett – and Cat's presence aboard would certainly lead to some form of punishment for Mercer. The clerk had no doubts about that.

Still, Mercer was hesitant to wake the sleeping girl as she lay curled up underneath the carpet. She was more angelic when she slept, more at peace, more at ease. He didn't want to break the quiet spell that hung about her now; but finally he did so, shaking her inelegantly.

She sat up with a sharp gasp, staring at him with frightened eyes. She relaxed when she realized it was only Mercer. "Good morning," she said with a yawn.

"It's still nighttime," Mercer informed her. "Everyone's asleep." He held out the suit of clothes to her. "Here, put these on," he commanded.

She stared at them curiously in the flickering lantern light. "You think they won't notice an extra crewman?" she asked, looking up at him.

"No, I'm certain they'll notice," Mercer said with a shake of his head. "I have yet to make up an excuse as to why you're here, so for the moment the outfit will have to do. I'll have some idea of what to tell Savage in the morning."

"Savage?" Cat stood, stretched, and then casually began unlacing the front of her dress.

Mercer folded his arms behind his back and knotted his fingers tightly together, doing his utmost to stare at her face. "He's the Lieutenant on the mission," he explained, turning his eyes up to the ceiling as she slid the dress from her shoulders. "Appointed by Beckett. Sort of a crass, rude fellow. I like him when he's not acting as though he rules the world, but I doubt you'll enjoy him."

"I don't think I've heard of him," Cat said with a slight frown as the dress pooled at her ankles. "Is he part of the aristocracy?"

"Well… not really. Although I'm surprised you haven't heard of him – he told me he asked for your hand after it became apparent you were with child."

Cat frowned. "My parents never mentioned him," she said.

"Hmm," Mercer said absently, glancing back at her, then immediately shutting his eyes and turned around. "Lawless must have proposed very soon after, or else they would have introduced you. Would you like to hear more about him?"

"Please."

Mercer forced himself not to peek at her. "He's part of a family of merchants – the type that captain their own ships still," he started. "Not like Victoria's father, who has his own collection of ships run by separate captains."

"So he's lower in status than Victoria, then."

"Yes, essentially," Mercer said, giving in and peeking over his shoulder. He caught a flash of her bare back as she pulled the white linen undershirt over her head before he turned away again. "But he still managed to find his way into Rose Wellington's bed," he added conversationally.

"If the rumors are true, hasn't everyone?" Cat quipped.

Mercer chuckled. "Everyone who's anyone, apparently," he said.

"Did she and Beckett ever…?"

Mercer frowned slightly. "No, never," he said. "They hate each other far too much for that." He paused, curious. "And what do you think would happen if Rose _did_ find her way into Beckett's bed, now that Tori and Beckett are married?"

"Tori would never speak to her again," Cat said certainly.

"Never?"

"Never."

"And what about Beckett?" Mercer inquired. "Would she still speak to him?"

"Maybe not for several months. But she'd forgive him eventually. She's forgiven him for worse things."

Well, that was true enough. Still, it made Mercer smile to think of indignant, violent-tempered Victoria showing her affection and jealousy in so blatant a way. _She's just like him,_ he thought with a shake of his head. "Well, Rose and Savage make quite a pair, I hear," he said dryly. "The two of them together spend all their time attempting to one-up each other with their coarse remarks. I think it must be rather amusing."

"Or horrifying." There was a pause; then Cat said with a laugh, "You can turn around, David."

He did so, flushing a little in the dark. The clothes were a little loose on her, but they fitted decently enough. Her hair, however, tumbled long down her back, giving away her sex automatically. He sighed and reached out to take a lock between his fingers. "This will have to go," he said regretfully.

Cat clutched at it, eyes wide with fear. "All of it?" she asked tremulously.

"No, not all of it," Mercer laughed. "But most of it. No man wears their hair this long."

Cat looked as though she might cry. "How much will you take?" she asked.

"Up to your shoulders, maybe a little longer – but not much."

She bit her lip, staring at the knife in his hand with intense dislike. "Can't I just… tuck it under a hat, or something?" she pleaded.

"And have the hat blow off to reveal it all? I don't think so." He shifted uncomfortably when he saw how distraught she was. "Catie, it has to be done," he said softly.

She shuddered slightly, then turned, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Fine, take it," she whispered.

He frowned a little at the back of her head. He could tell she was crying silently, and he couldn't quite understand why. He was aware, of course, that many women placed high value on their hair – certainly he himself was very fond of Cat's hair the way it was – but it would grow back eventually. There wasn't really a reason to _cry_ over it. He shrugged slightly to himself, stepped closer to her, and sliced through the first section of her hair with a sawing cut.

A tiny gasp and a stifled wail escaped Cat's mouth, and she covered her face with her hands. Mercer momentarily looked troubled. "Did I hurt you?"

"N-n-no." Her voice stuttered, choked and trembling with emotion.

He sighed, irritated. "Catie, it's going to grow back," he said.

"N-not for a long t-t-time," she sniffled. "I've never cut it once in my life. Never!"

Well, that might explain the tears. "I'm sure you'll find it much more freeing to have it shorter," Mercer told her. He lifted the knife and cut away another section of hair. When she still was choking back sobs, Mercer sighed and asked, "Do you want me to save some of it in a braid for you?"

She sniffed, then gave a short, hesitant nod.

"All right, whatever makes you feel better," he said. Then he continued at his handiwork, chopping away until her hair hung, a bit choppily, just below her shoulders. He pulled out an extra ribbon from his pocket and neatly tied it back in a ponytail. "There," he said, turning her around to face him. "Not so bad, eh?"

She stared up at him through wet lashes, a look that plainly said, _It's terrible!_ He sighed again and rolled his eyes slightly, not in the mood to temper Cat's vanity. "You look fine," he said impatiently, stooping to collect the pile of hair he'd deposited on the hold's floor and the long black dress crumpled by Cat's feet. Once he felt he had thoroughly gathered all the evidence, he nodded in the direction of the deck. "Come on, then," he ordered. "We'll dump this lot in the ocean, and then you can sleep in the captain's cabin for the night."

Cat raised both eyebrows in surprise. Although the question in her eyes remained unspoken, Mercer replied evenly, "I mean that you'll actually _sleep_, Catie."

She looked uncertain whether she should be wounded or relieved. Mercer chuckled to himself and lightly nudged her with his foot. "Well? Go on up," he said.

She started walking ahead of him, unconsciously reaching back to touch the ponytail neatly tied behind her head. Her fingers stroked the remainder of hair, reaching further down her back in a gesture of longing. It was almost as though she was missing a limb.

_She'll get over it,_ Mercer thought to himself as they stepped out into the moonlight on the deck. _It's only hair, after all._ He strode rapidly over to edge of the deck and threw the bundle in his arms over the edge, watching as the black ocean swallowed up the evidence of Cat's femininity. He glanced to his right and saw Cat leaning on the rail beside him, staring blankly after her dress and hair. "You're chasing after pirates, then?" she asked quietly, mostly to distract herself, Mercer suspected.

He nodded shortly. "According to the reports I've gathered, Tyris Burton, who captains the ship _Redemption_, is hunting down a treasure in India known as the Hand. We have no idea what the treasure is, exactly, or if it even actually exists. But they apparently have some kind of contact meeting them in Bombay. Someone named Bussiere, I believe."

"A Frenchman," Cat said absently. "Does he have a first name?"

Mercer shook his head. "Not that we could determine," he said. "They've given away too much information, but they've kept enough from slipping out to make things difficult. Tyris is a sneaky bastard, and clever – for a pirate. I'll grant him that, at least."

"You know a lot about Tyris Burton, then?" Cat asked in surprise, sounding more interested now.

"I know enough," Mercer said casually. "Tori probably knows more about him."

"If she does, she didn't tell me," Cat said, leaning towards him and sounding excited. "What's he like?"

"He's, for lack of a better description, a pirate," Mercer said disdainfully. "A pirate to the bone. He's traveled all over the world, wreaking havoc wherever he goes. Rumor has it that he has some foreign whore that he keeps on board with him as first mate – Zaida Gogg, I believe she's called. Nobody's sure if they're married or not, and nobody knows exactly where he picked her up, but she's deadly – or so it's rumored.

"Tyris apparently believes himself to be some modern Robin Hood – he likes to steal money from rich people and hand it off to the poor – keeping a huge remainder for himself, of course. He could probably retire and live like Beckett if he wanted to. He thinks himself some kind of knight, too, because he won't harm women. Admirable, I suppose, but he's not afraid to order his men to kill the women he won't touch. As long as no one knows their blood is on _his_ hands…

"Tyris also likes women – more so than most men. It's one of his weaknesses. Maybe that's why he defends them so much. And he has something for exotic places and people – he's always in India and China and South America. I hear even the Pirate Lords in Asia are ready to kill him, he steals so much from their area and does it so successfully. He likes sinking Company ships particularly, which may explain why he was involved in Tori's kidnapping."

"He was?" Cat said in surprise.

Mercer nodded. "Tori remembers him coming down to warn Orson that Beckett was on his way," he said. "And she also remembers that he wasn't too happy to see what Orson did to her. He set sail without the monster, after all."

"He's a long way ahead of us," Cat noted, sounding worried.

"According to the information I gathered, he's spending some time in India plundering other loot before meeting this Bussiere person," Mercer explained. "Bussiere didn't leave France until last week, fortunately; we intercepted a message that was meant to get to on of Tyris' crew members, who was staying behind."

"Don't you think he'll begin to worry when he doesn't get the message?"

"He _did_ get the message; we just got it first," a voice said from behind them.

Both Cat and Mercer turned, startled, to face Lieutenant Savage, who was leaning casually against the mast. "Nice night, isn't it?" he said easily, smiling at them. "Good time for a little nighttime chit-chat." He paused, staring both of them down, then glanced sharply at Mercer. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your cabin boy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mercer thought fast. "This is Alexander Westrand," he said, nodding slightly in Cat's direction. "He's one of my multiple agents. Very useful."

Savage appeared unconvinced. "That little thing?" he scoffed. "Useful? He can't be more than fourteen."

"Exactly," Mercer said calmly. "People don't expect young, innocent-looking boys to be gathering information. So they let their tongues slip around them. He's gotten me some of my best information the past few months."

Savage frowned slightly, looking Cat over with critical eyes. "I suppose I can see that," he conceded reluctantly. He leered at her. "It'd work better if he were a girl," he said. "He'd look like that Imogene Templeton, the one who's not even out in society yet. Or Catherine Whitlock, only without the baby." He threw back his head and laughed.

Cat looked incredibly nervous, but Mercer kept his cool. "Did you ever see Miss Whitlock up close?" he asked. "I remember you said you offered to marry her."

"Oh, no, I never saw her close," Savage said, waving a hand. "Just across a ballroom every now and again. I don't really remember what she looks like much, 'cept the hair color and that. I just proposed due to the fortune involved. A lot of money, that wench had. But I never got close to her. Imogene, on the other hand…"

"I don't know her," Mercer said, inwardly feeling relieved that Savage wouldn't necessarily recognize Cat.

"Pity," Savage said with another leer. "A little red-headed thing, very sweet. Fourteen, I think. Innocent as a baby, that. I had that one squirming between the sheets in no time."

Cat's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in shock. Mercer frowned slightly; he hadn't exactly meant to encourage Savage with that statement. He turned to Cat and said, "You should get some sleep, Alex."

Cat's mouth snapped shut, and she nodded wordlessly, hurrying into the captain's cabin and slamming the door closed behind her. Savage gazed after her with a quirked brow, waiting until the door closed before he turned back to Mercer. "Keeping the boy in the cabin, Mercer?" he questioned.

Mercer shrugged. "It'll keep the crew from asking questions about how he got onboard if he hides away," he said.

"And if they notice him, you'll have a very different variety of questions to answer to," Savage said in amusement. "After all, it _does_ seem a bit strange… keeping little boys locked away in your cabin…"

Mercer suddenly realized what Savage was hinting at. "Don't be disgusting," he said with revulsion.

Savage held up his hands. "Just warning you what they're going to think," he said. He moved away from the mast and added, in a very confidential tone, "And you're damn lucky nobody else knows what Catherine Whitlock looks like. Why the hell she's here, or how you got her onboard, and why she's not carrying a child, I don't suppose I'll ever know."

Mercer tensed, hands clenching behind his back. "You're a lying bastard," he said through clenched teeth.

"Charming, isn't it?" Savage said with a wide grin. "I suppose it was your child, then?"

Mercer stared straight ahead, jaw locked.

Savage smirked. "As I thought," he said. "She wouldn't be here if you weren't the father. I wonder if Beckett knows about this…?"

Mercer kept silent, not wanting to implicate his master in such a scandal.

"Hmmm," Savage said, satisfied. "I didn't think so. I wonder how he'd react to such news."

_He wouldn't be as surprised as you might hope,_ Mercer thought dryly.

"Tell you what," Savage said, his voice dropping even lower. "I'll keep quiet about all this… Beckett won't hear a thing, and neither will anyone else… if you hand over the captain's quarters to me."

Mercer had to admire Savage's gall. He glanced at the Lieutenant with a raised eyebrow. "You can have it tomorrow," he said.

"Tonight," Savage insisted.

"Tomorrow," Mercer said flatly. "Catie's already asleep."

"Oh, _Catie_, is it?" Savage laughed. He smirked widely at Mercer. "I can let her stay in there with me. I'm sure I'd show her a few tricks you haven't yet…"

Mercer's pistol was in his hand and at Savage's head so fast that Savage barely had time to blink. "Touch her, and you die," Mercer said fiercely. "In fact, say a word about any of this… and I _will_ kill you." There was a deadly light in his eyes, so fearsome that even Savage was momentarily cowed.

"Fine," the lieutenant growled. "Fine, I won't say a word."

"Good," Mercer said tersely.

The pistol was back in its place, and Savage breathed a sigh of relief. He laughed nervously as he looked at the slight bulge beneath Mercer's coat and said, "You're fast."

Mercer raised a brow. "That was slow… for me," he said. The threat was plain, and Savage clearly understood it. Mercer turned away and said airily, "I think it's your watch now, Lieutenant. Wake the next man up in two hours."

"Yes, sir," Savage muttered, glaring after the clerk.

Mercer smirked in the darkness, and then disappeared into the cabin.

* * *

The Rose House was still and quiet and serene, but Victoria didn't trust things to stay that way for long. She knew that when Beckett couldn't find her in the house he'd know she'd gone here. It was, after all, her retreat – her quiet place, her escape when she needed to be alone. And she'd been going there rather more often than usual lately – not due to any unusual amount of stress on her part, but because she'd been hiding a fugitive there.

The fugitive was gone, but the aftermath of her departure was just beginning.

Victoria had honestly hoped it would take longer than a few short hours for anyone to notice Cat's disappearance. After all, her family wasn't on speaking terms with her, and Lawless had no interest in the poor girl anymore. The only person who might care even a little about her whereabouts was onboard the same ship as she, and he would find her soon enough – if he hadn't already.

The door to the Rose House burst open with a loud _bang_ as it smacked against the wall, and Victoria flinched. Then, she forced her face into some appearance of calm and turned to the entryway with a smile. "Oh, hello, Cutler," she said pleasantly. "Have the guests left yet? I wasn't sure how soon they'd -!"

"Where is she?" Beckett growled.

Victoria pretended confusion. "Beg pardon?" she asked lightly.

Beckett stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him with such force that the shelves on the wall shivered, and the items they displayed clattered loudly and nervously in the still of the room. "Don't you _dare_ act innocent in all of this," he snarled, eyes bent on her. "Where is Catherine Whitlock? And you'd better hope to God she's not where I think she is."

Victoria pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at her husband. "She was here," she admitted, her voice frosty now. "She had nowhere else to go, and she needed me to take care of her."

"And so you took her in without even _asking_ me if it was all right," he said through clenched teeth.

"This house isn't yours anymore," Victoria said irritably. "It didn't inconvenience you in any way."

"Except that my wife kept going missing at odd intervals, appearing late for meals, declining to spend any time with me because she would rather be 'alone'…" he said acidly.

Victoria huffed. "I still spent time with you," she said defiantly.

"I don't suppose you could deny me at night, could you?" he said icily. "I like to see you during the day sometimes, too."

"You still did," Victoria said sullenly. "And Cat needed help. She's done nothing to offend you -!"

"Of course not," Beckett said sarcastically. "Except to nearly ruin my clerk…"

"As though that was her fault!" Victoria exploded. "If Mercer hadn't gone after her -!"

"Gone after her?" Beckett repeated, taking several furious steps toward her and then thinking better of it. "And who encouraged _that_, I wonder? I don't suppose _you_ hold any of the blame in what happened with them?"

Victoria's anger evaporated, and she looked away. "I… I shouldn't have encouraged them," she confessed. "I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did. I just… I wanted her to be happy. And I owe it to her to help her, since I helped bring about all this…" She waved a hand.

Beckett seemed slightly pacified by the confession of guilt. "So if you're so intent on helping her," he said, glaring at her across the room, "Then where is she?"

Victoria stiffened, chewing her lip and refusing to look at Beckett.

He walked slowly across the room, set his hands on either side of her on the back of the divan, and said in a deathly quiet voice, "I _know_ that you didn't help her get aboard the _Sea Siren_. You wouldn't do that to Mercer, and to me. You wouldn't send the worst kind of distraction on a mission that's important to all three of us… would you?"

Victoria didn't flinch, but her jaw clenched.

Beckett snarled in her ear, a low, guttural, angry sound that would have frightened her if she didn't know him better. "You _did_ help her get onboard the _Siren_," he hissed. "_That's_ why you were out so early and dressed like a man. You miserable little _minx_!" He slammed a fist onto the top of the divan, and Victoria finally jumped.

"She couldn't stay here," she said defensively.

Beckett had to step away from her before he could hit her. "Of _course_ she couldn't stay here!" he spat. "You should have taken her home, or somewhere else where she wouldn't have gotten in the way!"

"She won't get in the way," Victoria said quietly. "She'll help him."

Beckett laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, that's a lovely thought," he said darkly. "_Catherine_ helping _Mercer._ What's she going to do, drag away the bloody corpses once he's finished with them? Or perhaps she'll use herself as a distracting tactic – only to distract Mercer instead of the pirates. Or I suppose he'll send her to gather information and then be surprised when she gets killed by unscrupulous pirates."

"Stop it," Victoria snapped, whipping around to face him. "She's well aware of what Mercer does, and what he plans to do on this mission. I've prepared her for it. And she'll do what she can to help him. You don't know Cat's strength."

"Strength?" Beckett repeated incredulously. "That girl _has_ no strength. She's the privileged daughter of a Lord, and she's never done a hard day's work in her life!"

"And I suppose it doesn't take any kind of strength at all to withstand the kind of pressure and hatred that Cat has for the past months – to survive the death of a child?" Victoria retorted hotly.

The mention of the child's death briefly stemmed Beckett's rage as he glanced downward at Tori's fragile body. "That's a different kind of strength than Mercer could use on a mission like this," he said quietly.

"It's strength, and she'll use it to their advantage," Victoria said flatly.

Beckett's anger returned full force. "That's all very well," he said heatedly, "But what about their discovery?"

"Nobody knows what Cat looks like onboard that ship," Victoria said scornfully.

"Oh _really_?" Beckett said. "I think Lieutenant Savage has some idea of what Cat looks like – _especially_ since he asked for her hand when the damage was discovered. I would imagine he has to have seen her at a _few_ social functions – don't you?"

The blood drained out of Victoria's face. "_Savage_ is on this mission?" she gasped.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you?" Beckett mocked. "My _apologies_, my pet. I imagine that changes your mind quite a bit about her concealment, doesn't it?"

Victoria was pale as a ghost now. "She doesn't even know Savage," she said desperately.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't know her," Beckett snapped. "And it certainly doesn't mean he won't try to bed her the instant he realizes she's onboard, whether or not Mercer is there to protect her. And, even worse, chances are he'll try to use the scandal to his advantage. He's that type of man, you know. He'll reveal to everyone that Mercer was the father of Cat's baby, and then that will reflect back on both of _us…_ and I'll have to condemn both of them, and Mercer at least will go to the gallows." Beckett stepped back to her and leaned close to her ear, adding cruelly, "And that will all be thanks to you."

Victoria gave a tiny cry of horror, eyes wide and a hand pressed to her mouth.

Beckett stepped away from her, completely unsympathetic. "Maybe you should have thought of all that before you sent her away," he said icily.

A tear slipped down her cheek. "I didn't know," she whispered futilely.

"You do now," Beckett said harshly. "And I can see you realize now how stupid you were being."

Victoria's jaw clenched, and she turned frigid eyes to him. "Mercer won't let anything happen to either of them," she said certainly. "He'd sooner kill Savage than bring harm to Cat."

"You don't know that," Beckett said angrily.

"I think I do," Victoria shot back. "He'll defend her to the death – and even Savage isn't a match for Mercer. You know that just as well as I do."

"And _if_ Mercer should decide _not_ to protect Cat?" Beckett questioned.

"He wouldn't do that," Victoria said flatly. "He loves her."

Beckett snarled. "You're hopeless," he spat, and then he turned and stormed from the Rose House, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Victoria refused to leave the Rose House that day. Beckett decided it was probably for the best, since he halfway suspected his temper would boil over if he even looked at her again.

He sent a message to Lord Whitlock, telling him that his daughter had stowed away aboard a ship in desperation, hoping to find prosperity in another land. He assured the man that the Company would send out troops at once to find the girl, and that they'd watch the ports for her as well. In truth, Beckett gave no such orders; he halfway hoped that Cat would simply disappear. She'd caused him more trouble than she was worth at this point.

That night, as he was preparing to retire, he caught sight of Victoria's maid, Eleanor, carrying a set of pillows and blankets down the stairs. "What are you doing?" he inquired coldly, suspicion flaring through him.

Eleanor turned to look at him with wide eyes, attempting to drop a curtsy despite her arms being full. "Milady sent me in for blankets and such," she said, her voice trembling. "She wants to sleep in the Rose House tonight."

Beckett's eyes narrowed abruptly. "Like hell she will," he growled, shoving Eleanor out of the way and hurrying out to the Rose House.

When he arrived, followed by a nervously babbling Eleanor, who kept tripping and having to gather the items she'd collected, he attempted to immediately pull the door open – and found it barred. Fury tore through him at the idea of being locked out. _He'd_ given this place to Victoria; it had once belonged to him, but out of the affection he felt for _her_, he'd given it to her. And she had the nerve to lock him out?

He banged a fist forcefully on the door. "Victoria Beckett!" he yelled.

Her voice answered through the door: "I'm not opening it for you."

He let out a snarl so animal-like that Eleanor leapt back with a cry. "Oh, yes you are," he said ominously. "You will open the door right now or I will shoot it open!"

"You won't," Victoria said disgustedly. "This is _my_ place, and I want to be alone in it."

"You've _been_ alone all day!"

"If you're that anxious to bed someone, I'm sure the whores would be very willing to have you. Or you could always send for Charlotta Harris – she's always seemed very willing to be your mistress."

"You insolent, unreasonable, spineless, vapid little _whore_!" Beckett choked out.

"Calling me names won't get you into the house," Victoria warned.

"Fine!" Beckett erupted. "If _you_ want to be by yourself, then _stay _here! You can _live_ out here, if that's what you want!" He turned on Eleanor with a furious glare. "Bring everything of Victoria's out," he ordered. "I don't want a single thing of hers left in the house."

Then he stormed across the yard and back into the manor. He locked himself away in his personal library and stayed there the rest of the night, glaring into the fire and listening as the servants removed Victoria's things to the Rose House.

* * *

After three weeks of separation, Victoria began to feel restless and unhappy. She was alternately depressed and then angry with herself for being depressed over Beckett. But finally, she forced herself to swallow her pride. She dressed herself in the peach silk dress – a personal favorite of Beckett's – and sauntered up to the house, entering it casually, as though she had been living within it as usual for the past three weeks.

The servants, when they saw her, all exchanged nervous glances, but nobody stopped her until she ran into Oscar. He spotted her and blocked her path. "You're not supposed to be in here, milady," he warned.

She raised an eyebrow condescendingly. "It's my house," she said. "I can do what I want."

"Beckett gave orders," Oscar said, shrugging apologetically.

Her eyes narrowed. "He said I was to be kept out of the house?" she repeated incredulously.

Oscar nodded, looking embarrassed. "You really got to him this time, milady," he said, sounding rather impressed.

She shoved her way past him. "I'm going to see him," she said flatly.

"I can't really -!"

"Oscar," Victoria said threateningly, "I will slit your throat with this fan in my hand. Just _see_ if I don't."

Oscar eyed the fan with obvious fear; it didn't _look_ dangerous, but then, neither did Beckett. "If he asks, you never saw me," he gulped, and then he fled down the hall into the kitchen.

Victoria huffed and stomped up the stairs, hurrying down the hall until she arrived at the door to Beckett's quarters. She reached down to turn the knob – and found it locked.

She closed her eyes tightly shut, trying to swallow her anger. She lifted a hand and knocked as politely as she could. When she received no answer, she knocked harder. The door opened a crack, and a nervous Company guard peeked out. Victoria quickly turned away so he wouldn't see her scarred face. "Can I speak to Lord Beckett, please?" she asked lightly, lifting her fan to block what little of her face might remain in view.

"Ummm… well… no," the soldier said, sounding uncomfortable.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice frigid now.

"He… umm… asked us not to let you in, Miss."

"That would be 'milady' to you," Victoria spat, so viciously that the soldier jumped back from the door. "And I don't give a damn what he asked; I want to see him."

"Just shut the door, Tate," another soldier whispered furtively from inside the room.

"But it's _Lady Beckett,_" the soldier called Tate whispered back, sounding somewhat awed. "I can't slam the door on a lady!"

"But you _have_ to!" the other soldier hissed. "Beckett's orders!"

"But -!"

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Beckett's voice sounded pleasant, but Victoria recognized the undercurrent of anger.

"Umm." Tate sounded as though he were shifting back and forth in front of the door. "Umm, it's… it's Lady Beckett, sir. She's… uh…"

Beckett sighed irritably. "Get out of the door, Tate."

Tate stepped away, and the door swung wide, slamming shut again behind the small man who had stepped out. Victoria dropped her fan to her side and turned to look at him.

"You weren't supposed to be let in," he said coldly.

"Oh really?" Victoria said in mock surprise. "Nobody told me."

"Some servants are going to be made example of tonight," Beckett growled. "I thought you wanted to be alone."

Victoria pretended to be astonished. "Me? Be alone? Why ever would you think that, my Lord?" she gasped. "After all, who wouldn't want to spend every waking second of their lives at your side?"

"Is this your idea of an apology?" Beckett questioned. "Because it's not very good."

"Who said I was apologizing?" Victoria asked.

"Well, you _did_ come back into the house, despite determinedly avoiding it for three weeks," Beckett noted. "And you _do _happen to be wearing that peach dress I'm so very fond of, plus the pearl necklace I gave you when I first started courting you. And you addressed me as 'my Lord,' which you never do unless you want me to be on your side. Or is that all just coincidence?"

"Coincidence," Victoria said, irritated.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Well then," he said, turning away, "I don't see why you're wasting my time. I have important business here, so if you don't mind -!"

"Cutler, wait!" Victoria caught his arm, hurriedly pulling him back. She caught sight of the tail end of the smile he bit back as he turned around.

"Yes?" he questioned.

She bit her lip and looked at the ground. "I'm… I'm sorry," she murmured. "It wasn't my intent to jeopardize your reputation, or anyone else's for that matter. I just… wanted to help Cat."

He wore a mask of disinterest. "Picked a rather brainless way to go about it, don't you think?" he asked.

"Not really, no," she replied, "But it wasn't the wisest course of action. I'll admit that, at least."

They stood in momentary silence; then Beckett finally sighed and said crossly, "Will you stop looking so miserable?"

"Not until you say you forgive me. And that you're sorry for exploding on me like that."

"Don't push your luck," Beckett warned. "But I _do_ forgive you for being a stubborn, unrealistic, overly romantic wench who doesn't know what's good for her."

"Ummm… thank you?" Victoria snorted.

Beckett finally smiled. His eyes flickered downwards, towards her belly. "How's my son?" he asked.

"Your _daughter_ is fine," Victoria said, smiling back. "Apparently everything's exactly as it should be at this point."

"Good." He caught her around the waist and kissed her. "It's been awfully quiet about the house without you here to argue with me about everything," he told her.

"Oh, _well_," Victoria said, rolling her eyes. "My life has seemed rather empty without a height-deficient, overly self-important Lord hovering over my shoulder every moment."

"_Height deficient?!_" Beckett exclaimed. "I ought to lock you out of the house for that!"

Victoria smirked. "You know you missed me," she said.

He sighed. "Damn you, woman, but I did," he growled, and then he swept her up and kissed her again.

Tate peeked tentatively out the door. "I take it that all is forgiven?" he inquired hopefully.

"Tate," Beckett said, glaring back at the soldier. "Shut the damn door."

"Sorry sir," Tate muttered, and he closed the door again, muttering something about inhospitable lords and stubborn nobility.


	5. Stars and Old Friends

CHAPTER 5

The _Sea Siren_ was moving steadily through the dark ocean water. The ship itself seemed very still, the ocean quiet and calm. It was Mercer's favorite sort of night: silent, starry, and tranquil. Nights like these didn't come altogether often onboard a ship. Certainly they hadn't been frequent for the past three weeks as the _Siren_ journeyed towards India and the port of Bombay. Savage had a habit of staying up late and wandering around the deck, talking noisily with anyone still awake. Some of the crewmen followed his example, wandering about the decks at all hours of the night and cursing loudly.

But past few days had been exhausting ones for the entire crew. The sea had grown fretful and stormy, as it was wont to do, and they had been fighting the raging squall nearly three days. It had poured rain, and the sea had heaved, and the sky and ocean both had roared. They were battered with waves and rain and constantly soaked to the bone – Mercer was still waiting for his clothes to dry off. They had lost ten crewmen, which, although not an enormous loss considering the amount of crew onboard, was still causing trouble when it came time to distribute the workload. They'd lost a canon, too, and had nearly been battered to pieces by the violence of the waves.

Worst of all, Cat had been locked away in Mercer's cabin, borderline hysterical, throughout the entire storm. Never had Cat had to survive anything so fearsome, and Mercer was fairly certain Cat had expected to die more than once. But they were still alive and well, thank God. He had refused to let her out of the cabin until the sea had at last settled. Yet, even when he'd told her she was safe to come out, she'd refused, curled up in a ball in the corner and holding herself.

He'd left her there to stand in the still and quiet darkness, admiring the bright stars that hung in the now-clear sky. The rest of the crew was below deck, sleeping, even Savage; they were exhausted from the fight they had had to put up over the past few days, and they needed to sleep and recover their energy.

Mercer found that standing outside was enough to rejuvenate him. The darkness curled around him like a blanket, and the silence was comfortable for him. It gave him time to think, or, if he didn't want to think, time to simply _be_.

At the moment, his mind was as still as the sea, a quiet, flat, blank surface stirred only by the thought of Bombay drawing ever closer. The thought steadied and comforted him, reminded him of the assignment at hand and the treasure he would bring back for Beckett. He felt surer of himself than he had in a long time. He was on a mission at which he was fairly certain he would succeed; he was entirely in control, even if the ever-sullen Savage occasionally challenged his authority; and he didn't need to worry about Cat, because she was there with him.

Mercer frowned slightly, his calm momentarily disturbed. At the moment it was convenient – nice, even, he confessed to himself – to have Cat here. She was ridiculously grateful to him that he had allowed her to come and treated him as though he was a hero, which he liked a good deal more than he cared to admit. And she was warm and affectionate and so full of life and youth, which gave him a similar buoyancy. But he knew when they arrived at Bombay – when they finally made port and set off to hunt for the pirates – Cat would no longer be safe. When they were on the chase, he would constantly be worried about her, trying to watch her back, trying to protect her from all the dangers of the foreign land to which they were headed, and that would distract him. But he couldn't leave her with the ship and the sailors; not all of them were gentlemen, and quite a few of them probably wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the girl's vulnerability. The thought made his fists clench and his teeth grind. No, he couldn't leave her behind. She would have to come with him, for better or worse…

Mercer glanced back at his cabin, where the girl in question remained. Light spilled out from a lantern onto the deck from the door, for it was standing open. Cat was standing just inside the doorway, watching him. Her face was entirely in shadows, so he couldn't read her expression, but he made an effort to smile at her, as though to reassure her. Apparently comforted, she stepped out of the door and walked slowly across the deck towards him, looking about for other crewmen. Seeing none, she came to stand beside him at the rail, staring down into the water. "It's so quiet," she whispered.

Mercer nodded. "It's like this sometimes, after a storm." His voice was hushed, too; it seemed a pity to disturb the silence with conversation.

Cat leaned away from the rail, tilting her head as far back as it would go so she could stare upwards. "The stars are out," she murmured, smiling. "I love the stars."

Mercer tilted his head back as well to look up at them. "I don't get to see them much," he told her. "I'm usually inside at night – or in places where the stars can't be seen at all."

"That's sad," Cat said with a small frown. "My father used to take me out to one of the country houses during the summer just so we could see them. He'd wake me up in the dead of night and carry me out to the gardens and we'd lay on our backs and point out the constellations to each other."

Mercer smiled bitterly. "I suppose there'll be no more of that for you now," he said. He studied her curiously in the moonlight, then impulsively blurted out, "Do you regret it? Losing the country houses and the fine dresses and the fortune that would've been yours without me?"

For a moment he was horrified that he'd even asked such a question, but to his relief Cat didn't seem offended; she simply looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I suppose I do, somewhat. But I haven't really had to live without them yet." When Mercer snorted incredulously, she said, "No, really, I haven't much. Onboard this ship… well, it feels sort of like some kind of dream, or adventure story. It's like home is still waiting for me, back in London… that when this is over I can go back to the manor and this will all be some wild fantasy."

Mercer sighed. "It's not a dream, Catie."

"I know," she said with a nod. "And I know that I'll feel the situation's reality when we return to London again. I can't go home, after all; my parents don't want me anymore. And I haven't got Lawless to depend on either, though I hardly count that as a loss." She tapped her fingers against the rail as she thought over the question again. "I think it will be a difficult adjustment to make, but not so difficult, now that I've lived onboard a ship and spent months dressed like a man. And I imagine running across India chasing after pirates and the Hand will serve to help me get used to the idea of a different lifestyle."

Her wry tone made Mercer laugh. "I suppose that _will_ help," he conceded.

"Really, the comforts and money of course matter, but I can adjust to living without them," she concluded. "It's not them I'll miss so much. But… but I'll miss my parents. And my friends. I know Tori will always stand by me; she's proven that beyond a doubt – but I had other friends in the aristocracy, and none of them will speak to me anymore. It's like I don't exist, or never did. And that's worse than being poor – having no friends and no parents. It's as though my life, who I was, was entirely erased, and nobody remembers or cares. And I can't stand that." A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a curve down to the corner of her lips.

Mercer traced the path of the tear with his eyes, then hesitantly lifted a gloved hand and brushed it away. "Maybe… maybe your old life _has_ been erased," he said carefully. "Or maybe… maybe that's what should happen. When we return to London."

She blinked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Mercer looked away, staring off across the vast expanse of ocean. "If you took on a new identity… if you changed your name and your rank… then you could start a new life. You'd create a different world for yourself – the life of a servant, maybe, or a governess, or something like that – and then the other life will just disappear."

There was a tense silence for a moment. Then, Cat said shakily, "I'm… I'm not… not sure. Maybe that would be best. But… but I can't imagine living like that."

"You may not have a choice," Mercer told her, a little harshly. "Beckett most likely won't be happy at the idea of supporting us both. You'll have to find some sort of job to bring in a little money, at least for now. And if you had a different name… if you were part of the invisible lot of lower class that the aristocracy always ignores… then maybe Beckett wouldn't be so averse to the idea of helping take care of you."

"I don't see how his opinion matters," Cat said resentfully.

"His opinion matters because he employs and pays me," Mercer said tersely, "And if he so desires, he can discharge me from his services whenever he wishes. I can't afford to anger him if we're to live together."

Cat's face seemed to light up. "You'd _want_ me to live with you?" she said.

He was taken aback. "Well, yes," he said, suddenly cautious. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

She smiled happily and very suddenly hugged him. "Of course," she said, settling her head against his chest. "I just… wasn't sure you approved of the idea."

"And what did you think I'd do – throw you onto the street?"

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"That's harsh," Mercer said, rolling his eyes, "Though probably intelligent on your part." Uncertainly, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking up at the stars again. "I've never looked at the constellations," he said casually.

Cat looked up. "Really? You've been quite deprived," she said disapprovingly. "I'll have to teach them to you."

Mercer smiled slightly. "You might as well start now," he suggested. "Nobody's here, after all."

Cat shook her head slightly. "No, the constellations look best when you're lying on your back in the grass looking up at them," she said certainly. "And it has to be a summer night."

Mercer laughed. "Whatever you say, milady," he chuckled.

Cat settled back against him with a small smile. "Milady," she murmured. "I like that."

Her eyes fluttered close, and her mouth opened ever so slightly to take in small breaths. Mercer chuckled again, bent, and swept Cat off the deck. "I think you need some sleep," he told her.

"Mmm," she murmured. "If you think so…"

He carried her into the cabin and set her down on the bed, grabbing a blanket and lightly laying it over her. She snuggled beneath it, immediately grabbing hold of it and curling up into a small ball. He smiled lopsidedly and whispered to her, "Don't forget you have to teach me the constellations someday."

She sighed softly in her state of near sleep and mumbled, "I won't…"

Mercer stood watching her for a moment; then he turned, lifted the lantern and blew out the candle inside. He left Cat inside the cabin, and headed for the deck to stare at the stars.

* * *

The day after Victoria had successfully managed to move all of her possessions back into the main house, she chose to sleep in to an unusually ridiculous hour of the day. She had awoken briefly when Beckett got out of bed in the morning to leave for Company headquarters, but she had instantly decided to fall back asleep. She couldn't believe Beckett had decided to rise so early; both of them had been up rather late the night before alternately talking, teasing, and arguing with one another, and then making up for the arguments in passionate encounters buried beneath the blankets. Victoria was beyond exhausted from the combination and so slept like the dead.

In fact, Victoria was still asleep when Rosemary Wellington arrived at the house at one o'clock sharp. When Oscar made to block the door, Rose shoved a letter against his chest, simultaneous pushing him out of the way as she walked through the door, nose in the air. She went to sit in the parlor and wait for her hostess to be summoned, neatly arranging her elegant green skirt. The dress was subdued, stylish, and tasteful; Rosemary's cleavage was even covered by a buffon, a halfway transparent kerchief, which was draped about the upper neck and shoulders, that was quite popular with more modest women. She looked almost – _respectable_.

Oscar stared at her in disbelief for a few moments, quite certain that she must be feeling out of sorts today to be wearing such sensible clothing, but then opened the letter she had handed him. It said simply:

_Oscar:_

_Rose has my permission to see Victoria. I believe she has a right to visit with her friend, and anyway Tori deserves some kind of reward for her willingness to apologize. Let her stay._

_Lord Cutler Beckett_

Oscar stared at the letter in suspicion, but the signature was right, and the seal was accurate as well; there was no way to contest the letter's legitimacy. He sighed, looked at Rose, and mumbled, "I'll fetch the missus then."

He wandered up the stairs and into the Becketts' chambers, well aware that Victoria hadn't arisen yet. He knocked hesitantly on the bedroom door; when he got no response, he heaved another sigh and headed back downstairs to find Eleanor.

Eleanor didn't pause to knock as Oscar had, once he'd retrieved her; she walked right into the bedroom and shook Victoria forcefully. "Wake up, sleepyhead," she said in a light, teasing tone.

"Go 'way," Victoria grumbled into her pillow, tugging the blankets over her head.

"Now, you mustn't be so stubborn, milady," Eleanor said, grabbing the blankets and pulling them off Victoria. Victoria gave an indignant cry and began to reach blindly for the covers, trying to find them while still keeping her eyes closed.

"Oh, no you don't," Eleanor said, grabbing her hands. "Come on, milady, you must get up. Miss Wellington's here to see you!"

_That_ woke Victoria up in an instant. "_What_?" she cried, sitting up. "She's _here_? Does Beckett know about this?"

"Apparently he's the one who sent for her, milady," Eleanor said, now confident that Victoria would get out of bed. She hurried over to Victoria's wardrobe and selected a simple, informal outfit – a bright yellow skirt and a long blue bodice. They would be much easier to put on than the gowns Victoria usually wore, and they would be faster as well.

Victoria leapt out of bed and came to stand by Eleanor, tugging her nightgown over her head and throwing it onto the bed. "Sometimes, that man is a god," she sighed happily. She grabbed for her stockings and sat on the trunk at the end of the bed, pulling them on hurriedly.

Eleanor grabbed her stays and a fresh shift, turning around to face her. "That's blasphemy, milady," she scolded. "And anyways I think it was more than a bit ridiculous of him to bar you from seeing her anyway. He's only doing the sensible thing, letting her come here."

"But something must have changed his mind," Victoria said, drawing in a sharp breath as the laces of her stays were pulled tight. "I suppose my apology did the trick."

"I would imagine so, milady," Eleanor said. "Will you be wanting to do anything with your hair?"

"It's just Rose," Victoria laughed. "I don't see any reason to bother. She won't mind. She's used to seeing – " Victoria stopped abruptly and drew in a sharp breath. "Oh, no…" she whispered.

Eleanor frowned. "What is it, milady?" she asked, starting to set down her armful of petticoats.

Victoria raised a hand to her face. "She… she hasn't seen them," she said quietly. "The scars."

Eleanor cringed. "Oh, that," she mumbled, looking away. Eleanor had had the shock of her life when she'd seen Victoria's face upon arriving to the Beckett manor; she'd had no idea what had caused the scars, and it terrified her. But she had guessed – rightly, as Victoria later told her – that the pirates who had kidnapped her had given the scars to her. Nonetheless, they still horrified Eleanor, and it was hard for her to look at her mistress. Beckett had promised that one day they would disappear, but Eleanor didn't believe that that was possible. "I'm sure she'll understand, milady," Eleanor said brightly, trying to cheer Victoria. "After all, she was the first to see the cuts that gave them to you. She ought to be prepared."

"I don't think anything can prepare anyone for what I look like now," Victoria said dejectedly, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her green eyes were sad, but hard – she had grown used to the reflection she was seeing now, and it wasn't the face itself that troubled her. It was the reactions she received when others saw her face…

"Well, don't worry about it," Eleanor said soothingly, lifting the bundle of petticoats and starting to pull them over Victoria's head. "She'll accept you no matter what them pirates did to you."

Victoria didn't say anything for the rest of their time together. She was silent as Eleanor finished lacing up her bodice and stayed so as she brushed out her hair with several quick strokes. She shook it back over her shoulders, studied herself one final time in the mirror, and then hurried downstairs to the drawing room.

Rosemary was no longer sitting on the divan, as she had been when she arrived; she was looking through a sketchbook that sat on the piano in the room. The sketchbook in question was not Victoria's, but Beckett's. Victoria had no talent for drawing. She liked to paint, but only dewy, unclear, fairy-like landscapes – nothing with the realism that might have been most appreciated in young women. Beckett, on the other hand, was a talented artist, but had little free time to nourish the talent. He had taken to drawing pictures of Victoria while she slept, as this was the only time he had to do whatever he pleased, and it was these sketches that Rosemary was looking at in silence when Victoria entered the room.

"Rose?" Victoria's voice was tremulous, betraying a considerable amount of fear.

Rose wasn't quite ready to turn around and see the damage that had been done in its fully reality. She continued to stare instead at the final sketch in Beckett's book, one of Victoria asleep on her side, the blankets pulled up over her naked chest and held just below her arm. "Your husband is quite the artist," she said casually.

Victoria seemed surprised. "Is he? I didn't realize. I've never seen him paint before."

"Draw, actually," Rose said, tracing the dark lines that marked up the sketched Victoria's face. "And I don't imagine you have. He seems to like to draw you as you sleep."

There was a slight edge to Victoria's voice as she spoke again. "He draws _me_?"

"You appear to be his favorite subject." Rose closed the sketchbook and set it back on the piano and drew in a deep breath. "They're bad, aren't they?" she said softly.

"You saw them in the sketches, I presume."

"I imagine they're worse in reality." Rose folded her arms over her stomach and closed her eyes tightly. "I'm going to apologize in advance for the way I'll probably look when I see them. I know it… can't be pleasant. To be looked at like…"

"It's not." Victoria's voice was a little cold.

Rose drew in a deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned.

She was honestly surprised. They weren't as bad as she had expected. Maybe the sketches had braced her for them, or maybe her imagination had made them infinitely worse. Anyway, they were much better, she realized, than the enormous bloody cuts that she had seen that first night after the kidnapping. Anything was better than the blood. And Victoria appeared so much calmer, so much more settled now than she had at that horrible moment when she'd crawled into the light.

Rose smiled tearfully and hurried over to her friend, throwing her arms around her. "I've been so worried about you," she whispered.

"_You've_ been worried?" Victoria snorted, hugging Rose back. "When I heard you were to marry Presbery, I felt awful. I thought for certain you'd been forced into it. Please tell me that isn't true."

Rose laughed and pulled back. "It isn't," she promised. "It's completely wrong. Oh, Tori, Will is just… he's so warm and – and witty and charming and – !"

Victoria arched a brow – the brow through which a large white scar sliced. "Dear God," she laughed. "She calls him by his first name, she's stumbling to get out all of his charms, _and_," she added with a laugh, "She is wearing modest clothing. Where in God's name did _this_ dress come from?"

Rose threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, I have so much to tell you, Tori," she said elatedly. "How many times I wished I could see you to tell you all about the things Will did for me while we were courting…"

"Well then, before you share all of your stories and good news, let me share mine with you," Victoria said, stopping her.

"Your good news?" Rose said in surprise.

Victoria smiled. "Next time you see Cutler, tell him you think it's a girl. You'll infuriate him."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but suddenly Rose squealed and hugged Victoria again. "You're having a baby!" she cried.

Victoria's smile widened. "I am," she confirmed. "And Cutler refuses to believe me that it will be a girl."

"What does he know?" Rose said dismissively. "He's not going to give birth to her, is he? What are you going to name her?"

"We're not sure yet," Victoria said, leading Rose over to the divan. "Cutler's insistent on naming our son Alexander, but since I'm more than certain it's a girl, that obviously isn't the issue at the moment."

"Out of curiosity," Rose asked, "How do you know it's a girl?"

Victoria shrugged. "Mother's instinct," she said simply. "What do you think of the name 'Helena'?"

Rosemary wrinkled her nose. "It's too upstanding," she said. "It sounds like a well-behaved girl."

"And you think I want my daughter to misbehave?" Victoria exclaimed.

"She's _your_ daughter. She _will_ misbehave, no matter what you do."

Victoria laughed brightly. "I suppose you're right," she said in amusement. "But enough about the baby. Tell me about Presbery!"

Rosemary did not need further encouragement. She was singing his praises in an instant, and she spent the rest of the afternoon telling Victoria all about their marvelous courtship. She described his house and his parents and how lovely they were; his older sister Julianna, with whom Rose was now very close; Julianna's husband, Adam, who was a Duke and who was very fond of his wife; the lovely birthday ball they had held for Rosemary a month ago, and the absolutely outrageous engagement ball they had also hosted; and all the events of Rose and Presbery's courtship, not necessarily in the order in which they occurred.

Victoria's favorite story of the entire courtship involved a fistfight between Presbery and Lawless; the duo had gotten into a ferocious argument at the engagement ball and had come to blows after something Lawless had said regarding Rosemary's faithfulness. The fighting had gotten so bad that some guests came outside, Beckett included – and then Beckett had leapt into the fray and broken Lawless's nose.

"He never told me that!" Victoria cried, after she had choked on the tea she had been sipping up until that point.

"Oh, it was wonderful," Rosemary laughed. "I apologize, Victoria; I kissed your husband after that."

"How dare you?!" Victoria exclaimed in mock outrage. "But I suppose I wasn't there to do it myself, so I'm glad you did. I'm sure he was astonished."

"I don't think he knew what to do with himself," Rose chuckled. "Presbery said something about not wanting to have to punch Beckett too, and Beckett said something about breaking Presbery's nose as well, and then Charlotta Harris had to come and interrupt everything to fawn on Beckett and tell him how brave he was. Which is what led to him telling her to go to hell so loudly that the entire ballroom heard."

"_That_ I heard about," Victoria said with a wide smile. "I'm sure Charlotta was horrified."

"Well, she _did_ run off crying, but that apparently hasn't stopped her from flirting outrageously with him," Rose said with a sigh. "She was following him about at the theater last week, when he went. I think she asked if he wanted her to sit in his box with him, since he had no one to accompany him, and if I'd liked him more at the time I would have interrupted and told her that he was sitting with Presbery and I. But I didn't like him at the time, so I didn't try to help him."

Victoria looked troubled. "I suppose a lot of women will have been throwing themselves at Beckett, what with my conspicuous absence," she murmured.

"People _do_ tend to talk, dear," Rose said sadly, taking a sip of tea. "Most people don't even believe you're still in town. They think you came back for maybe a few days and then went off to France with Captain Chevalle again."

Victoria glared darkly at her tea. "I've had quite enough of pirates," she said harshly.

Rosemary laid a hand on her friend's knee. "I know you have," she said softly. She hesitated, then asked, "Are you certain it's best for you to… to stay shut up like this? I know you don't want the aristocracy to see what you look like, but until they know you're here they won't stop talking."

"I know," Victoria said dejectedly. "But… well… Beckett believes he may have found a way to heal me – to make the scars go away."

Rosemary looked incredulous. "I don't know of any cure that can do that, short of magic or a deal with the Devil," she said skeptically.

Victoria decided that mentioning said cure involved magic was probably not wise. "It may not work," she said with a little shrug, "And if doesn't… well, we'll decide what to do from there. Originally I had thought he could use me to further his extermination of the pirates – strike fear into the hearts of the rich and all that, you know – but he opted not to."

"I'm glad he's not using you for his own nefarious purposes," Rose said disgustedly. "I had worried about that for awhile, you know."

"You needn't have," Victoria said, finishing off her tea. "Generally speaking, we've been on very good terms the past few months."

Rose raised an eyebrow and glanced significantly at Victoria's lower belly. "So I gathered," she said.

Victoria laughed, and then said, "Of course we've still had our differences, and when the pair of us fight… well, neither of us have mild tempers. Things tend to get a bit explosive. But I imagine you know how that goes. You and Presbery have had some wonderful fights, I'm sure."

"Oh, God," Rose snorted, rolling her eyes. "You should _hear_ how bad things get sometimes. The first time he came for tea, I took him out into the gardens for a walk -"

"A walk… or a '_walk_'?" Victoria asked, adding a certain inflection to the second 'walk.'

Rose laughed. "The latter," she said. "A tryst, if you want to call it that. But, stubborn little bastard that he is, he _refused_. Can you believe that? Lord William Presbery _rejected_ me. He told me he wanted to marry me… that he didn't see me as a simple tool to rid himself of his lust." She sighed romantically. "At the time I was ridiculously offended," she admitted. "But… oh, he's just so sweet. I adore him."

Victoria smiled. "I'm glad to see you so happy," she said sincerely. "I was worried for a long time that you'd been manipulated into a marriage you didn't want."

"I feared the same thing for you," Rose said, studying her curiously, "But you seem happy enough." She looked hard at Victoria. "You really love him, don't you?"

"Strangely enough, I do," Victoria said calmly, pouring herself another cup of tea. "Despite his being a cold-blooded, heartless, soulless bastard…"

"Oh, darling, I'm flattered," Beckett's voice said from the doorway. "You're so very sweet."

Victoria turned on the divan and saw Beckett leaning casually against the frame of the door, smiling in amusement. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," he said. "A discussion of all my various faults, for example?"

"I've said almost nothing about your faults today," Victoria said with a laugh, rising off the couch and going over to him, "But I _did_ hear a very interesting story about you and Lawless. You never told me you liked to get into fistfights!"

Beckett winced. "I don't, particularly," he said, "But it was Lawless, and you know how much I hate him."

"I do." Victoria stopped just in front of him, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly. "Hello, my Lord," she murmured.

"My Lady," he replied with a grin. The smile disappeared, and he held up an envelope. "We have something important to discuss," he said very quietly. "You should finish up here quickly and come see me in my library as soon as you're done."

"As you wish, sir," she said with a mocking curtsy.

He snorted and shoved her back into the room. "Nice seeing you, Miss Wellington," he called to Rosemary, and then turned and headed up the stairs. Victoria stared after him with an amused smile on her face before turning back to her guest.

Rose raised an eyebrow. "He wants me to leave, doesn't he?" she said.

Victoria nodded with a sigh. "He has something to discuss with me," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We had all afternoon together," Rose pointed out, glancing out at the darkening sky. "And I should be getting back home anyway. Father wants to spend all the time with me that he can before I'm no longer his little girl."

Victoria laughed and hugged Rose. "It was wonderful to see you," she said happily. "Come back soon."

"At _least_ once a week," Rose promised. "I haven't even told you _half_ of the good stories…"

"I'll look forward to it," Victoria said, walking with Rose to the door. She stopped by the doorway and hugged Rose one last time. "Good night, Rose. Tell Presbery I said hello."

"I'll do that. And tell Beckett he's a gutless dandyprat."

"I'll do that, and I'll also thank him for you for finally letting you visit," Victoria laughed as Rose slipped out the door. "Good night!"

She watched as Rosemary stepped into her carriage, and then waved back when Rose leaned from the carriage window and waved good-bye.

As soon as the carriage was out of sight, Victoria closed the door and hurried up the two flights of stairs to the third floor, rushing down the enormous corridor until at last she arrived at Beckett's personal library. She paused outside the door, trying to catch her breath; apparently Beckett had heard her, because the door opened a second later. "You didn't have to run," he said in amusement, sweeping her up off the floor and carrying her into the room.

"It sounded urgent – and I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own even if I can't breathe," Victoria retorted indignantly, but the words only made her shorter of breath, so she gave up and settled comfortably against her husband's chest. Beckett smirked slightly as he noticed the gesture, but set her down on the divan in the room rather than continuing to hold onto her. He then settled into the chair opposite the divan, arranging himself so that he almost appeared a king in the high-backed, heavily cushioned seat. He studied Victoria for a moment to make certain she was paying attention, and then removed the letter from his frock coat. He unfolded it with great pageantry, and then read:

"_To Lord Cutler Beckett of the EITC:_

_I have returned to London after a long and trying mission in France. As you may recall, there was an item of some interest to you that I was meant to retrieve for you there. Said item is now in my possession, and has been brought back with me to London. If you would like to retrieve it, meet me at Baxley's coffeehouse next Wednesday at seven o'clock. You know the spot. There is a back room that Baxley keeps; I will be there waiting for you. Bring a substantial amount of payment; this item is highly valuable._

Sincerely

_Mr. Dalton Thompson_

Company Merchant."

Beckett folded the letter again and looked at Victoria with a confident smile. "I think," he said quietly, "That we may be able to heal your scars much sooner than we thought…"


	6. Morgan's Book

CHAPTER 6

London's coffeehouses were some of the most popular gathering places in England. They were the centers of all intellectual and political discussion, as well as a marvelous place to exchange gossip. And they were always filled to the brim with aristocratic, wealthy customers, sipping at their drinks and swapping opinions and stories.

Beckett was very fond of the coffeehouses and had often frequented some of the finest in his rise to power. He had met various business associates and important, upper-class connections over the strong foreign drink, impressing them with his extensive knowledge of the business world and of the individuals in the aristocracy. In earlier days, when he had been a bit more desperate for money, he had even sold some information here and there. But it had been a long while since he had been in a coffeehouse; since he had gotten involved with Victoria his life had simply been too busy to allow time for a visit to one, and anyway the pleasures promised him at home these days were greater than those afforded by a hot drink.

Still, it was with considerable delight that Beckett stepped into Baxley's coffeehouse that Wednesday evening. Baxley's was his favorite coffeehouse; the owner, Hector Baxley, had always been particularly generous to Beckett even in the days when he was only a merchant's son. Even then Baxley had sensed greatness from Beckett's diminutive person, and he had always shared a little tidbit of information and an extra cup of coffee, free of charge, with the young man whenever he'd stopped by.

Beckett was not so young these days, and Baxley's son did most of the running of the shop now, but Baxley still had a special place for the lord. As soon as Beckett walked through the door, old Baxley looked up, and spotted him, and got to his feet with a smile. "Lord Beckett!" he said cheerfully, approaching the well-dressed lord with open arms.

"Baxley." Beckett accepted the embrace with a surprisingly good-natured smile. If anybody else had tried such an improprietous gesture, Beckett probably would have had them shot. "It's been a long time."

"Too long!" Baxley agreed, leading Beckett towards the back of the building. "You haven't been here since you started courting that Thorne girl. Pity; I've been wanting to hear all about her, especially since she finally snared you into marriage. Settled into the married life, have you?"

"I have, finally," Beckett chuckled.

"And how's it been treating you?"

"Wonderfully," Beckett said sincerely, glancing over his shoulder at the small figure shadowing him. "Victoria can be quite the pain sometimes, but all in all she's worth the trouble."

"She must have been a smart thing to turn your head – and pretty, too," Baxley said.

Beckett was rather impressed that Baxley chose to mention the girl's intelligence first, knowing it would be the more important of the two qualities to Beckett. "Both," Beckett concurred. "She's really quite extraordinary."

"You'll have to bring her down to see me sometime," Baxley said.

Beckett quashed a smile; little did Baxley realize that the woman in question was actually walking directly behind Beckett. "I'll be sure to do that," he said. He motioned to Victoria offhandedly; she was dressed in plain servants' clothes, highly resembling Mercer's, but much smaller. They hid her feminine form well, and to most she appeared to be just a boy. "This is Mr. Huxtable," he said easily. "He's relatively new working for me. I thought I'd bring him along, show him the ropes for the night."

Baxley eyed Victoria questioningly, taking in the scars on her face. "What about Mr. Mercer?" he asked. "He still working for you?"

"Of course," Beckett said with a nod. "But I had to send him off on some business in India, I'm afraid. Huxtable's taking his place for the time being."

Baxley looked concerned. "He's awfully young, sir," he noted in a low voice. "I can tell even through those scars. He's gotten himself into some scrapes, I gather."

"Some absolutely magnificent scrapes," Beckett said dryly. "He's a quick learner. Don't worry, he'll do for now." He glanced towards the back of the building and said, "I believe there's a merchant here to see me."

"Ah, yes, Thompson," Baxley said, motioning for Beckett to follow him. "He ordered the back room last week. Said you'd be coming; that's one reason why I came down to the front room."

"I'm flattered," Beckett said with a smile.

"You ought to be," Baxley grouched jokingly. "I'm not always so kind to fops like you."

"Watch yourself, old man, or I'll have to close down your shop," Beckett warned with a laugh.

"Old man, is it?" Baxley said, affronted. "You're not so young yourself these days."

"But I don't have a son yet," Beckett pointed out. "Although there's one on the way."

Baxley's face seemed to light up at the news. "Is there?" he said. "That's marvelous. My felicitations to your wife."

"I'll tell her for you." The trio stopped before a small, plain door in the back corner of the shop.

"He's in there," Baxley said, nodding towards the door. "I hope all goes your way."

"Oh, it always does," Beckett said airily. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Stop by again sometime soon. And bring that baby when you come!" Baxley ordered.

Beckett chuckled. "I will – and the wife, too," he promised.

"Good," Baxley said, stepping aside. "Good night, Beckett."

"Good night, Baxley."

Beckett watched as the old man shuffled off, back to the front of the shop, a small smile playing across his features. Victoria arched her scarred brow curiously. "I didn't realize you had real friends," she said teasingly.

"I have a few," Beckett said.

"By a few, how many do you mean?"

"Three: Baxley, Mercer, and you."

Victoria laughed. "I'm not certain I should count, since I'm your wife," she said. "I don't have any choice _but_ to be your friend."

"That's hardly true at all," Beckett said. "Take Violet Gardiner and her husband, for instance. Are _they_ what you'd call friends?"

"Not remotely," Victoria snorted.

"Point proven." Beckett raised a hand to knock at the door, fully prepared to claim his prize, but before his fist could touch the wood, the timber twisted about – and morphed itself into a face.

Beckett lowered his closed hand slowly to his side, staring levelly at the face now eyeing him. Victoria drew in a sharp breath and stepped closer to him, but she seemed merely curious rather than afraid. "What _is_ it?" she asked quietly.

"Be still, my Lord and Lady," the face in the wood said in a soothing tone. "I come bearing a warning from the Fae folk under your command."

Beckett folded his arms behind his back, lifting his chin slightly and studying the thing before him with cold blue eyes. "Give me your message, then," he said.

"The object that you have come to obtain is very dangerous," the face informed him, speaking steadily. "It once belonged to the Queen Morgan le Fay."

"I am aware of its previous owner, creature," Beckett said calmly. "You will have to do better than that to dissuade me."

"In order to use the spells contained within the Book, a sacrifice must be made," the face answered without pause. "The sacrifice is not determined by he who wields the power of Morgan's Book, but by the Book itself, and it will claim its sacrifice whenever it sees fit. The sacrifice is directly proportionate to the amount of spells used and the effects of the spells on other creatures; the more spells you use, and the more creatures whom they affect, the greater your sacrifice will be. If you use the Book too frequently, it could even take your life."

Victoria looked disturbed by this news, but Beckett was firm. "I do not plan to overuse it," he said. "We only need it to heal the marks left upon Victoria by her kidnappers."

"Whatever you _need_ it for, my Lord, you will find that once you have opened the Book, it will be difficult to avoid using it," the face said reproachfully. "There are spells for every conceivable purpose within – spells that you might be tempted to use in aiding you to defeat the pirates that you find to be such a menace."

Beckett's eyes glowed with a dangerous light. "If there are indeed such spells, they will be of use to me," he said, a small smile playing on his face.

"Only until they kill you," the wooden face said shortly. "Consider yourself duly warned."

"I shall. And thank your benefactors for the information," Beckett said with a graceful nod of his head.

The face, miraculously, gave a similar nod of respect, the wood stretching outwards and rippling like a flow of water before undulating back into place. The face, too, melted away, disappearing into the door.

Victoria stood worriedly beside him, arms crossed over her chest. "Perhaps this is a bad idea," she said apprehensively.

"Nonsense," Beckett said, straightening his frock coat and preparing to knock on the door again. "The sacrifice will be a worthy one if I can both heal and avenge you and succeed in my lofty goal of destroying the pirates."

"Cutler…" Victoria murmured, lightly touching his arm. "I don't _need_ to be healed. I've grown used to my face, and so have you. And eventually the aristocracy will adjust, too. And anyway you've already got the faeries bound to you – what more do you need?"

"The messenger said himself that there would be spells useful to my operations here," Beckett said, lifting a hand to knock. "And I won't have the entire aristocracy mocking you behind their hands. They ought to be groveling at your feet." Without waiting for a response, he knocked loudly on the door.

A somewhat portly man opened the door, looking nervous and sweaty. An unpleasant odor wafted out from the room when the door was opened– apparently emanating from the edgy merchant. "Hello, Lord Beckett," he said, bowing aside so that Beckett and Victoria could enter the room. "Hello, Mr. – oh!" He looked rather astonished when he realized that it was not Mr. Mercer who had followed Beckett in.

"This is Mr. Huxtable," Beckett said, carelessly motioning to the disguised Victoria. "He'll be my assistant for the time being."

Thompson took in the scars on Victoria's face with a considerable sense of fear. "I… ah… see you've found yourself in some rather tight spots," he said, attempting to joke off his fright.

Victoria calmly removed a dagger from her belt and twirled it about in her fingers. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she replied, deepening her voice as much as possible without sounding ridiculous.

Thompson swallowed hard, then turned and hurried to the table at the center of the room, where Beckett had calmly seated himself. "Well," Thompson said with another nervous laugh, "You know why you're here."

"Let me see it," Beckett ordered, holding out his hand.

Thompson leaned down to a case beside his seat and carefully removed a heavy tome wrapped entirely in a purple velvet cover. Beckett took the large volume from Thompson's trembling hands and delicately unwrapped it, shoving aside the velvet and running his fingers over the worn, heavy cover of the Book with almost loving fingers. He beckoned to Victoria, and she hurried to stand beside him, leaning close over the table to look at the book. Its cover was plain black; there was no writing anywhere to be seen. It appeared a rather normal, lackluster book, if a bit large.

Beckett glanced up with a small frown at Thompson, momentarily worried that he had been duped; but when he flipped open the book, there, scrawled in Old English, was the title he had sought: _The Book of Morgan le Fay_. It was simple, handwritten; there was no calligraphy to it. It was almost as though it were just a note, a slipshod scribble added only out of necessity.

Beckett carefully began to thumb through the delicate pages, which quickly became increasingly elaborate in design. The entire thing was written in Old English, but that did not disturb him; he knew some of the language from previous experience, and what he didn't know the faeries could teach him. They would surely speak this language. He ran his fingers cautiously over one of the pages, decorated with a dragon at its edge. If only there were some way to change it into English…

At that thought, the page suddenly was inscribed entirely in plain English. Beckett stared at it in momentary shock. There had been no sign, no warning that the page had changed. Indeed, it was almost as though he had blinked, and in that brief space of time while his eyes were still closed the letters rearranged themselves into English words. Victoria, too, was surprised; he could tell by the sharp hiss of breath she emitted when she saw the change in the page.

The specific spell at which they were looking was one devoted to bringing out and controlling a dragon – hence the exquisite dragon lining the page's edge. _Dragons,_ Beckett thought in an oddly detached way; _Why did that never occur to me? Excalibur may control dragons as well; and if it doesn't then there's this spell to use… wouldn't that be a nasty little surprise for the pirates?_

Beckett began carefully turning pages, looking over the various spells, incantations, ingredients and gestures required. Everything was neatly specified on the same page as its parent spell. And there were spells for everything – spells for curing impossible illnesses, spells for creating love in a reluctant heart, spells to bring wealth, spells to bring sons. Beckett hovered over this spell for a moment, eyes flicking rapidly over the page, before his gaze turned slyly upward to Victoria. She pursed her lips and turned the page for him. Her eyes widened abruptly and she let out a little gasp. Astonished, Beckett looked back at the Book – and saw what had so startled her.

The page was decorated with an exquisitely beautiful woman, drawn flawlessly with ink and preserved in all her bright-colored glory despite time's ravages on the mystic Book. On the page, in neat, perfect calligraphy, was the spell for creating beauty where there had been none before.

Beckett had been hoping for something more along the lines of a healing spell, or a spell to remove scars. Victoria had certainly been lovely before, but her beauty was not such that it had stood out amidst a crowd. To change her into an inhumanly beautiful creature somehow seemed to defeat the purpose of finding the spell to him; the scars had taken away some of who she had been before, and absurd, alien loveliness would take away still more of that woman. He glared down at the spell book, wishing it had offered a less blatant solution to his difficulty. The beautiful maiden smirked up at him, eyes twinkling on the page.

He closed the Book with a swift snap that caused Thompson to grimace; the volume was old and highly valuable, and Beckett's quick gesture could potentially have ruined it. "Are you displeased, my Lord?" Thompson ventured to ask in a quavering voice.

"I had hoped for something a bit different," Beckett said offhandedly, reaching for the purple velvet cover and wrapping the valuable tome within it. "I'm not certain I can use it."

He glanced at Victoria and saw her crestfallen expression, but ignored it. He still had every intention of purchasing the Book from Thompson, but he knew he could use his disappointment to force an even lower price than the already low offer he knew Thompson would suggest.

"That's a pity," Thompson said, sounding a bit angry. "It's a very expensive book, you know, and I went to a good deal of trouble to fetch it for you. I lost a good deal of money hunting it down."

"And gained more, I'm sure, by smuggling some extra loot back in the ship with you," Beckett observed, his tone threatening. Thompson flushed darkly, and Beckett smirked. Thompson had a very bad habit of smuggling extra cargo onboard his ships to sell in the illegal markets when he returned, and Beckett knew it; thus, he kept several spies aboard Thompson's ships, and they in turn kept track of the extra cargo that Thompson smuggled in with him. "I believe you have a shipment of pearls meant for Company purposes that you claimed were lost. Or did you simply forget their location in your ship? It _is_ rather strange for you to keep them in your cabin as you apparently did."

Thompson was sweating heavily now; he knew he could face a hanging if Beckett pressed charges against him. "I – I didn't realize they were – it was an odd place that my cabin boy stowed them, you see -!" Thompson started.

"Don't try making excuses," Beckett said disgustedly. "I don't need them from you. This isn't the first time you've smuggled, Thompson. In fact, it isn't even the second or third or fourth time, is it?"

Thompson was quivering violently in his seat now, staring wide-eyed at the cold man across from him. "I've got to survive, sir," he said pleadingly. "I've _got_ to, and when you keep sending me on these cockamamie missions -!"

Beckett arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?" he said icily.

Thompson cowered back momentarily, then gathered himself in an impressive display of courage. "Ever since you learned of my interest in ancient artifacts you've been using me," Thompson accused, drawing himself up in his chair. "You sent me after that sword, and _that_ took years to find – years where I could have been doing something more productive for the Company – years of my life, wasted! And – and – and – and then you send me after this ridiculous book, which some of my men died to retrieve -!"

Beckett held up a hand to stop the tirade. "Died?" he repeated.

Thompson nodded, shuddering slightly. "When we offered to purchase the book from the monastery at which it was kept, we were driven out at once," he said. "And then when we kept coming back for it, they started coming after us. They're bloody _monks_, for God's sake, and they carried daggers. Daggers! Poisoned ones! And they killed five of my men. Me and my first mate barely escaped with our lives." He shuddered again, then quickly returned to his former haughty position. "The point being," he continued, "That I've risked my life on your missions multiple times, and I'm getting nothing out of it but lies, blackmail, and an empty pocket. You ought to compensate me better for the work I do, else you're not any better than the thieving scum on the street."

Victoria recognized the still, hard look that came across Beckett's face at those words, and for a split second she pitied the poor merchant. Usually when that look appeared, it meant death for whoever was receiving it. In Victoria's case it usually meant at least two good weeks' ignoring, and sounder punishments than that. Victoria was fairly certain that in this case it meant the former.

She watched as Beckett reached down and swept up his cane – an elegantly carved thing tipped with silver at both ends – and set it calmly at Thompson's chest. "You're right," he said easily. "I ought to compensate you for risking your life in such a valiant way. And so I shall." He set down the walking stick and opened the book again, casually looking through it and pausing to peer at a particularly interesting page. "How much gold do you want for it?"

Thompson gasped sharply in surprise. "Gold, sir?" he asked in a strangled tone.

Beckett looked up in amusement. "I was to understand that you risked your life and lost the lives of five crewmen," he said. "I assumed you would need a significant amount of gold to compensate you for such a loss. Am I correct?"

Thompson nodded, a greedy gleam coming into his eye. "Are these gold pieces, sir?" he questioned, rubbing his hands together.

Beckett nodded.

"Two hundred, then," Thompson ordered pompously. "To make up for my losses when I went after that sword, as well."

"Two hundred," Beckett repeated in a bored tone. "Very well; you shall have two hundred." With that, Beckett nonchalantly lifted his walking stick again, studying it momentarily and twirling it about in his hand; then, with a sharp twist and a hiss of, "_Glendran pening,_" he thrust the slender staff into Thompson's mouth.

Thompson gurgled in surprise before suddenly gasping and sputtering, flailing desperately in his seat. Victoria frowned slightly in confusion as she watched the man wriggling, tilting her head slightly to the side to listen closely. She could swear she heard an odd clinking sound…

Beckett held the walking stick in its place for a few moments, then was forced to remove it swiftly as Thompson bent forward. The portly merchant began gripping desperately at the table's edge, his mouth still open – and suddenly he was vomiting coins out his mouth, trying to draw in a breath and quite unable to do so.

Victoria watched solemnly as more gold coins poured from the unfortunate merchant's mouth. He clutched at his throat and reached out desperately for her, but she simply stared at him with a cold, unfriendly gaze. Wheezing slightly, the merchant gagged a final time, then collapsed forward with another shower of coins and was still.

She watched quietly for a moment, waiting to see if the man would stir. When he didn't, she glanced curiously at Beckett. "Is that a spell in the Book?" she asked.

"Yes; I noticed it on our first viewing," Beckett said calmly. "Thought it might make an interesting first spell to try. And knowing that one's greed… it seemed an appropriate punishment."

"If a bit unpleasant." Victoria glanced with considerable distaste at the coins nearest her on the table. "How are you going to explain this your old friend Baxley?" she questioned.

Beckett waved the staff casually and murmured, "_Géanhworfennes." _The gold coins melted and became a disgusting splatter of vomit across the table.

"Bloody hell," Victoria swore, leaping back and covering her face with her arm as the fluid began to reek. "So, what? He mysteriously died in the midst of negotiating with you?"

"Not so mysteriously," Beckett said, gracefully pushing his chair back and walking to stand by Victoria. "He ate some bad meat, perhaps, or mayhap he had been ill for a long time. He _was_ out to sea for a long time; God only knows the plagues he might have caught out there. His unfortunate demise can hardly be seen as our fault." Beckett put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her towards the door. "Now, please God, get out of here before I vomit myself. His insides smell worse than his outsides."

Victoria didn't need more encouragement; she moved quickly towards the door and threw it wide open, rushing hurriedly out. She did not need any prompting from Beckett to know that he needed her to fetch Baxley, or Baxley's son, and inform them of the death. She caught sight of both Baxleys seated at a table in a corner, and she hurried towards them. "Begging your pardon, gentlemen," she said, her voice dropping an octave lower than usual, "But there's been an unfortunate accident."

The elder Baxley leapt up in concern. "Is Beckett all right?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, Hector," Beckett assured him, walking up to the trio. "Thompson, unfortunately, is not doing so well."

"Is he ill?" the younger Baxley asked.

"I'm afraid he's dead," Beckett said, his voice monotone.

The younger Baxley looked stricken. "Dead? God bless his soul…"

Baxley senior glanced towards the back room. "How did he die?" he asked, arching a brow. Apparently he didn't think that the death was a natural one at all.

"I'm not sure; some kind of illness, I imagine," Beckett said, wrinkling his nose. "I believe you'll find he vomited rather copiously on your table. My apologies for that."

"Well, I don't suppose it could be helped," Baxley said with a sigh. He lightly laid a hand on Beckett's shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea _why_ the man would be vomiting all over my furniture, would you?"

Beckett was the picture of innocence. "None," he said remorsefully. "He didn't seem very well when we entered the room, and just as we were settling on a price…"

"I get the idea," Baxley said, waving a hand. "I don't need to hear about what he did next; I'm sure I'll get to see it for myself in a moment. Well, I hope that his death won't put too much of a damper on your evening."

"I don't imagine it will," Beckett said dryly. "Thank you for giving us the use of your back room. Sorry for the mess." He slipped a coin into Baxley's hand as he turned to leave.

Baxley snorted and handed the coin to his son, who seemed much happier to accept it. "You'll bring the wife and baby next time as you promised, won't you?" Baxley called after Beckett's retreating back. "And try not to kill any of my other customers?"

Beckett chuckled. "I'll do my best," he agreed with a respectful nod. "Good night to you, Baxley."

"Good night, Beckett. Night, Huxtable."

Victoria hid a smile as she bowed slightly in Baxley's direction; then she turned and hurried out after Beckett into the darkening night.


	7. Spell Casting

**A/N: I apologize for not updating for the past couple weeks - I've been really busy, without internet, and without a flashdrive on any number of occasions... Thanks for all the lovely reviews I've recieved so far. I will be updating more regularly now that things have (sort of) settled down. Enjoy!**

CHAPTER 7

The Beckett manor was still and dark when its master and mistress returned home. All the servants were fast asleep – excepting, of course, for Oscar, who was waiting at the door with an anxious expression on his face.

He opened the door wide for the pair with a whispered exclamation of, "You've got it! You've got it, haven't you? Oh, 'tis a delightfully nasty bit of work! Let old Oscar touch it, please?"

"No," Beckett said flatly, carefully balancing the velvet-wrapped book in the crook of his arm. "It is also a delightfully priceless bit of work, and therefore impossible to recover. Only Victoria and I are allowed to touch it."

Oscar frowned. "But there could be something in there – something to help me learn things about others!" he pointed out.

"All the more reason to keep the Book from you, since you already know everything about everyone, myself included," Beckett replied evenly. "For example: how, exactly, do you know of the Book, Oscar? _I_ certainly never told you."

Oscar shrugged unapologetically. "I know everything," he said simply, tapping his head wisely.

Beckett sighed. "So you do," he said with a shake of his head. "No spell could improve your particular talents, Oscar – and if I find one that can, I'll cast it on you myself so that you'll never know the difference."

Oscar gave a delighted whistle and began to dance around the foyer, half-mumbling and half-singing in what seemed to be some deranged language. He was quite absorbed in the dance and didn't even seem to notice when Beckett grabbed Victoria's wrist and pulled her up the stairs to their chambers. He closed the door, locked it, and blocked off the keyhole so that the busybody below wouldn't be able to see what they were doing; then, thinking better of it, he opted to leave the keyhole blocked _and_ go into the bedroom, so that even if Oscar had another way to look into the parlor, there wouldn't be anything to watch.

As soon as the bedroom door was closed and locked behind them, Victoria began to strip off her man's suit while Beckett dropped onto the bed and began flipping through the Book. "We'll have to start experimenting right away," he said briskly. "I want to be able to present you in public before you give birth to my son."

"Daughter," Victoria corrected automatically.

"Son," Beckett repeated, not looking up from his search through the Book.

"Daughter," Victoria said insistently, more to irritate him than for any other reason.

"I can make certain it's a son," Beckett informed her, holding up the Book. It was open to the spell they had discovered earlier – the spell to bring sons. "Perhaps I ought to cast this first."

"Don't you _dare_ attempt to alter your child's sex!" Victoria cried, outraged. "And do you really want _that_ to be your first spell – something that, if cast wrong, could potentially kill your child?"

The thought was obviously horrific to Beckett, because he very rapidly turned the page. "Hmmm… here's something," he said, peering closely at a spell further along in the Book. "This changes one object into another, apparently. It's short and rather simple, and we won't have to worry about killing anyone while doing it."

"Well, that's always an advantage," Victoria drawled, rolling her eyes slightly. "What should we change?"

Beckett glanced at her and saw the hat she had been wearing sitting on her vanity beside her. "Give me your hat," he ordered.

She did so with a slightly quizzical look on her face. "What are we going to change it into?" she asked.

"I don't know. What do you want it to be?" he asked.

Victoria smiled. "A crown," she said immediately. "A bright gold crown with hundreds of jewels of every possible color."

"That could be a bit difficult," Beckett said, a frown of concentration flickering over his face. "But I suppose it's not impossible…"

"You did a rather impressive job of turning vomit into gold coins," Victoria pointed out. "How did you _do_ that, anyway? I meant to ask you on the way home, but you seemed absorbed."

Beckett smiled darkly. "The cane I possess – the one I walk with all the time – isn't just a fashionable accessory," he said. "It was carved from a staff that originally belonged to the wizard Merlin. Mercer retrieved it for me a few years ago – it was probably the most difficult mission I've ever sent him on, but he survived and brought it back."

Victoria shook her head. "The things that man will do for you," she said in amazement.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem particularly discomfited by the notion that my cane once belonged to a wizard known to be part of an ancient legend," he said.

She cast him an incredulous glance. "Cutler," she said, "You wield Excalibur. You've told me that you also possess the belt of the Green Knight; you had faeries guarding me at our wedding, and still have them watching me even though you'd like me to think that you don't; and, moreover, we have just finished purchasing Morgan le Fay's book of magic, which you used to choke our seller with the gold coins he so desperately wanted. Did you really expect your cane's origin to surprise me?"

Beckett looked a little disappointed. "Well, I had honestly hoped for a slightly more shocked reaction than this," he said, "But I suppose that was a bit much to ask for."

"I can pretend to be astonished if you like," Victoria offered.

"No, that's all right; the moment's passed," Beckett said, waving a hand to reject her suggestion. "We might as well try to make your crown."

"Ooh! Hooray!" Victoria giggled excitedly, jumping onto the bed next to him and bouncing like a little girl.

Beckett cast her a disdainful look. "When you're settled," he said coolly.

She frowned, thwarted, but calmed down at once. "Settled," she told him brightly.

He rolled his eyes, but quickly turned back to the Book. "I suppose this shouldn't be too difficult," he murmured to himself, stripping off his frock coat and then rolling up the sleeves of his undershirt. He lifted his cane from where it sat by the bed and carefully placed its tip to the hat. "_Abedecian héafobéag,_" he whispered.

Instantly, the hat lifted itself from its place on the bed and began to twist itself to another form in the air. Victoria watched in amazement as the fabric writhed and turned until it had become a brown leather crown.

"Hmmm," Beckett said, displeased with the results. "I suppose I have to specify what it's made out of."

"I suppose you do," Victoria agreed. "But I quite like the idea of a leather crown. Seems like it could start an interesting new fashion amongst the royalty of Europe."

Beckett snorted. "You tell that to King George," he said to her, "And you'll see how well he likes _that_ idea."

Victoria sighed. "Well, _I_ think it would be amusing," she said.

"_You_ can wear it if you like," Beckett said, eyes flickering rapidly over the page. "I wish I knew the word for 'gold…'"

"What word did you use for the spell on the merchant?" Victoria questioned.

"Not 'gold,'" Beckett said crossly.

"Well _that_ at least was apparent," Victoria huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Still, she leaned curiously inward to see what Beckett was about. "Maybe the Book will tell you," she suggested.

"Oh, I doubt that," Beckett said. "It'd never be so simple."

"You wished for it to be in English, and then it became English," Victoria pointed out. "Why should it be different with this word?"

"The word's not on the page, for one," Beckett said. "And for another -!"

"Book, what's the word for 'gold'?" Victoria inquired in her politest tone, ignoring Beckett entirely.

The pages flipped, seemingly of their own volition, to the back page, which was blank. Bright gold ink used from the page and formed itself into an odd-looking word: _gylden._

Victoria looked up at Beckett and smirked. "Ha!" she said triumphantly.

"Be quiet, doxie," Beckett growled. "Back to that spell we were using, please." The Book obeyed with a quiet rustle of pages. "Amazing," Beckett said to himself. "It almost seems to have a mind of its own."

"Probably Morgan's," Victoria said, her voice hushed with awe. "No wonder this book's so dangerous."

"Oh, don't," Beckett said disgustedly, peering at the page again. "All right, let's try one more time." He sucked in a deep breath, then ordered more forcefully, _"Abedecian gyldenbéag._"

Quite suddenly, the hat was no longer made of leather; in the blink of an eye, and in so smooth a gesture that it had been almost impossible to see, the leather had turned to solid gold.

"Dear God," Victoria breathed. "That's incredible."

Beckett still did not look satisfied. "It doesn't have the jewels you asked for," he sighed. "I suppose I'll have to specify for those, too."

"Seems an awfully complicated way to work magic," Victoria noted. "No wonder wizards and the like had to study so hard to reach mastery of their subject."

"There must be an easier way to do this," Beckett grumbled. "Merlin can't have stood there trying to spit out mouthfuls like these when his enemies were charging towards him."

"You never know," Victoria said. "He may have been very talented with words."

"But one little slip, and the whole spell would go wrong," Beckett said in frustration. "Morgan certainly wouldn't have taken such risks unless she was desperate, and I can't imagine Merlin would have either."

"Maybe a different way will reveal itself in time," Victoria said soothingly. "We're just learning to do this, after all."

Beckett did not look appeased. "Perhaps," he said absently, tracing the words on the page with his finger. "Let's try it again…"

They spent the rest of the night changing the hat into various objects – a vase, a bowl, a pot of tea, a pot of tea and a set of cups, a pot of tea and a set of cups with saucers, and the latter all on a tray. The last three were particularly difficult and took up most of their efforts due to the multiple items in the set. It was difficult enough to make a pot of tea; making the pot wasn't particularly difficult, but making the tea appear inside the pot required a good deal of concentration. Then making the cups took yet _more_ concentration. Beckett discovered that if he held a detailed picture in his mind of each item, he could create almost exactly what he wanted – but he never created what he desired the first time he did it. He usually stumbled over some of the words, and there weren't really Old English translations for "tea" and the like. Still, by the time the sun had dawned, there was a lovely tea set on the bedside table, and the pot was filled with piping hot tea – which left Eleanor quite astonished when she appeared with their usual morning tea tray.

Victoria slept the rest of the day while Beckett worked at the Company's headquarters. She was awake and dressed by the time Beckett returned home, and after a hurried supper they disappeared into their room to start their work again. Beckett took a several hour nap while Victoria worked on changing a set of her shoes into a pair of kittens. This was beyond difficult; the first time she successfully created what she wanted to, they were _dead_ kittens. Frantically she sought a spell to endow them with life, but the spell was far too complex for her, and so she had to change them back to shoes – only the shoes were still made of the kittens' soft fur. Once she'd restored them to their original forms, she attempted to make them into a pair of black lace fans.

When Beckett awoke, he set to the problem of the kittens, but he found that the spell to give life was too complex for him as well. Instead, he worked at changing the black lace fans into one long strand of pearls, then changing the pearls individually into pairs of shoes. By morning, Victoria had more shoes than she could ever need, and Beckett more boots than he had ever wished for.

The experimenting continued in much this way for the next three months. Beckett moved on to much more complex spells, having already experimented both with Excalibur and Merlin's staff; Victoria, too moved on, but not nearly with such speed as Beckett, having had no experience before. He soon discovered that words did not necessarily have to be spoken for the spell to work – with a small gesture of the hand or the cane and a strong visual in his mind, he could create anything he wanted to. They made elaborate swords; summoned black faeries who had previously managed to avoid the call of Excalibur; discovered spells for summoning and ruling dragons and for exterminating entire groups of people; and even learned how to take over their servants' minds and control their actions. At the end of the three months, Beckett finally managed to cast the life spell, bringing a soft kitten to life in Victoria's arms. She named the kitten Lancelot.

And it was then, confident in his abilities, that Beckett told her one night, "I think it's time we fixed your face… don't you?"

* * *

Cat Whitlock made two important discoveries about herself as her company's journey progressed: one, that she disliked dressing as a man; and two, that she _really_ disliked ships.

Weeks had passed in steady monotony onboard the _Siren_. The journey towards Bombay was not a short one, though apparently not the longest Mercer had ever been on from what he'd told her, and by the time three months had drudged past the entire crew was thoroughly ready to see land. Cat in particular was ready to dock; she had never been outside of England in her life, and at first travel had thrilled her, but the sight of the endless blue ocean had finally grown tedious.

"Two months ago I couldn't imagine despising this view as much as I do right now," she said miserably to Mercer as they stared out at the horizon.

Savage, who was leaning against the rail on her left, spat into the water below. "Welcome to the seafaring life, love," he growled. He had been in a foul mood the past few weeks, and had been more crass and rude than usual – particularly to Cat. Since he knew she was a woman – and had made as much apparent to her – he liked to pick at her above all the rest.

Most of his fun was ruined by Mercer's presence, since Mercer was the only person above him in rank and Mercer never let the lieutenant bother her too long. He was fiercely protective of the young girl, dragging her everywhere he went aboard the ship and even once shooting a man who dared insult her. Despite the obviousness of Mercer's affection, most of the dimwitted crew hadn't yet realized that Cat was a woman, and those who had kept silent for fear of being shot. Only Savage dared even bring up the matter in front of Mercer, and even then it was only when he was fairly certain the clerk was unarmed.

Savage was feeling particularly disgruntled at that moment, primarily due to a nasty little crack he'd made at Cat that had earned him a punch in the stomach from Mercer. He looked murderous, even leaning casually as he was against the ship's rail staring out at the ocean blue. "Bloody ocean," he spat, glaring at the water as though it had caused all his troubles. "Bloody ships. Bloody stupid Company missions."

"If you don't like it, I'm sure Beckett can find someone to take your place," Mercer suggested threateningly.

Savage's frown deepened. "I'll keep the job for now, thanks," he grumbled.

Mercer snorted. "Thought so."

They stood in silence awhile longer; then Cat asked, "How much longer until we reach land?"

"Can't really say," Savage told her, stretching widely and 'accidentally' brushing her breast on the way up. She gasped and cast him a dirty glance, which earned him a wrathful, hellfire-threatening glare from Mercer. "Soon, I hope," Savage continued as though nothing had happened. "I'm in need of a good go with a doxie." He eyed Cat speculatively. "'Course - " he started.

"One more word out of you, buck-fitch, and you'll not have the parts to _have_ that go," Mercer snarled.

"Touched a nerve, eh?" Savage said heedlessly. "Not surprising. 'Course, you wouldn't be suffering from going without, because _you_, lucky little sod that you are, haven't _had_ to. Can I bring _my_ screw next time we travel?"

"As if you could ever keep a woman interested in you," Cat laughed brightly, before Mercer could react more violently.

Savage narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll have you know that there are plenty of woman _quite_ interested in me in London," he snapped.

"The harlots on the East Side don't count," Cat said scornfully. "They only want your money, not _you_."

"I wasn't _referring_ to them, actually, although they're rather fond of me as well," Savage said tartly.

Cat raised an eyebrow. "Not from what I've heard," she said.

"How have _you_ been hearing from the East Side harlots?" Mercer demanded, frowning disapprovingly at her.

She giggled at his expression. "Calm yourself, Mr. Mercer," she teased. "I haven't been there myself, but Victoria knows a lot of the riffraff there. She still hears from some of them occasionally – the ones who aren't pirates, anyway. And she's told me that you've been banned from at least ten brothels near the wharfs, not counting all the others you doubtless can't visit anymore. Really, Savage. What _have_ you been doing to those poor ladies?"

Savage was livid. "And how, I wonder, does Lady Beckett happen to know all this riffraff?" he demanded. "She shouldn't be spending time with such people."

"An unfortunate connection through an old friend of hers who turned pirate, which she maintains only so that Beckett can know the movements of the lower class," Mercer said, casting Cat a warning glance when she frowned. Realization dawned, and she fell silent, looking back out towards the ocean.

Her frown deepened suddenly, and she leaned forward, squinting. "The horizon looks dark," she said in surprise. "Is that – is that _land_?"

Mercer and Savage were both leaning close to her quite suddenly, staring out at the ocean view. "It _is _land!" Savage exclaimed, and gave a loud whoop.

Soon the rest of the crew was at the rail, watching as the ship turned about and headed for the land. It steadily began to grow larger, a thick strip of dark earth against the sky. The crew was yelling and leaping about with joy, suddenly rushing about the ship, hurrying to finish up tasks left undone and to prepare the ship for port.

Cat breathed a sigh of relief. "I never thought we'd make it," she said happily, surreptitiously reaching over and taking Mercer's hand. "But the journey's finally over…"

Mercer shook his head grimly. "Cat," he said warningly, "It's only just begun…"


	8. Bombay

**A/N: A quick note to anybody who was on FanLib: I update the version once weekly; hence, it's behind the Legends that was posted on FanLib. Sorry for the inconvenience!**

**And a note to my readers: I had a bunch of short stories about Beckett, Victoria, Cat, Mercer, and the gang posted on , but since it's shutting down, I'll be moving them here. However (this is primarily for the benefit of FanLibbers) as they're part of a Fanfic 100 challenge, I'll be posting most of them as ONE fic, and I'll be posting them in timeline order - which means there will be a bunch of new ones posted before I get to the older ones on FanLib. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.**

**Another sidenote: I'm not sure if the language goes by Hindu or Hindi - I think I've seen it both ways? Anyways, corrections are always appreciated.**

**And now, without further ado...**

CHAPTER 8

Bombay was a wild, exotic city, dirty and beautiful all at once. Its wharves were filled with Company merchants and soldiers speaking English as well as people from every corner of India, moving crates and boxes into ships, hawking items to the merchants and sailors nearby, sullenly following English masters and glaring at the other European folk.

Cat was so relieved to be on land that at first she didn't even notice their glares. She had to lean rather heavily on Mercer, unused to walking on solid, unmoving ground, but he didn't seem to mind much, and anyway Cat imagined he felt much more secure in her safety with her clinging to him like a child.

She looked about the city with wide eyes as she, Mercer, and Savage moved deeper into the port. There were crowded open-air markets in the street filled with merchants selling food, jewels, and cloth; the buildings were rickety and crowded together, and there were beggars everywhere who rushed up to Savage and begged for money, having noted his uniform and assuming he would be the leader of the small group. He mercilessly shoved them from his path, but the only disapproving glare he received came from Cat; Mercer didn't seem to notice Savage's cruelty, or else didn't really care.

When Cat felt steady enough, she tried to pull back from Mercer, so that she could wander separately and take in the city by herself – but Mercer would not release her. Astonished and a bit irritated, she looked up at the much taller man and said, "I'm not going to get lost and die, David."

He cast her a glance that suggested he didn't believe that for an instant.

"David," she said a bit angrily, "I'll be _fine_."

"_David_?" Savage repeated with a laugh. "Didn't know that you even _had_ a first name. David. Can I call you that?"

"No," Mercer said flatly.

"Too bad, David," Savage chuckled nastily. "I think I'm going to like being on first-name terms with Beckett's favorite killer."

"I think I wouldn't be so free with that first name if I were you, Ralston," Mercer growled.

Savage looked rather taken aback that Mercer knew his first name; then a cloud passed over his face. "It's Lieutenant Savage," he said vehemently.

"It's Mr. Mercer," Mercer replied coolly.

Savage growled something rude, then grumbled, "Yes, sir…"

Mercer smirked, pleased with this victory; but in the time that he was distracted by the exchange, Cat managed to slip loose from his arm and rush ahead. "CATHERINE!" Mercer shouted after her, a frantic look flickering across his face, but she ignored him, spinning excitedly in the midst of the street.

Even Savage looked a little distraught at the sight of the innocent girl so obviously in awe of the city. "Bloody hell," he growled, starting to shove passerby from his path. "The wench'll get herself kidnapped or worse if she keeps that up!"

"And if they don't kill her, then I will once we catch her," Mercer snarled, tossing people out of his path. "CATHERINE!"

Cat was too involved to pay attention the men behind her, even though the crowd was murmuring angrily as they forced their way through. She caught sight of a seller far ahead of her selling stunning golden jewelry, and with a delighted cry she pushed her way through the people around her to the stall to admire the wares there. Carelessly, she removed her hat, and her hair, which had started to grow longer in her time aboard the ship and which she had had tucked up inside the cap, fell loose over her shoulder.

The seller, an Indian man, looked curious at the sight of a woman in men's clothes, for he could certainly tell that Cat was a woman – young, little more than a girl, but still a woman. He didn't seem to object to her attire, however, and in fact spoke very politely to her. "You are English, yes?" he said to her as she lifted a golden necklace from its place.

She looked up and nodded with a bright smile. "This is beautiful," she told him.

"There is more down that way," the seller told her, pointing down the street nearest his stall. It branched off the main road between two buildings, and was somewhat shadowy and still compared to the main street.

Cat felt a tiny twinge of regret at having run ahead of Mercer. Cautiously, she set the necklace back down. "Oh, I don't have enough money for anything you're selling here," she said quickly to the seller.

"Is not very expensive," the seller said, smiling winningly at her. "I sell very low to pretty English ladies."

Cat blushed. "Thank you," she said, "But I really can't buy anything."

"Something to take home to lady friends in England, maybe?" the seller suggested, holding up a pair of earrings that Cat knew Victoria would adore.

Cat bit her lip and looked longingly at the earrings. "Well…" she said hesitantly.

The seller grinned. "There are better ones at my shop down there," he said, pointing down the street. "I keep my items there. You come look, yes?"

There was a click of a pistol being cocked, and someone laid his hand very firmly on her waist. "No, she won't," Mercer growled from behind her.

The seller's smile seemed to melt into an expression of terror. "Is just jewelry," he said, holding up his hands nervously.

"And if you keep offering to show her more of it, I'll shoot you," Mercer threatened darkly.

"He will," Savage said from Cat's other side, casually spinning his own pistol in his fingers. "He's not afraid to. I've seen him do it more than once."

The seller swallowed hard. "I leave her alone," he promised, nodding rapidly and forcing a smile to pretend he was at ease.

"Smart little sod," Savage remarked, putting his pistol back into his belt.

Mercer was not nearly so ready to trust the man. He kept his pistol out and pointed at the man as he spun Cat about and turned her away. "I'm watching you," he warned the Indian with cold, narrowed eyes. When they were far enough away from the small stand, he finally turned away, keeping his pistol firmly in hand as they moved down the street. "Don't _ever_ do that again," Mercer hissed at Cat, keeping a firm hold on her waist as she tripped along beside him. "Why the hell did you take your hat off? You can at least pass as a boy when you're wearing it."

"It was hot, and I couldn't see," Cat said petulantly.

"I don't give a damn," Mercer spat. "As soon as you took it off he knew you were a woman, and he probably would have brought you into some dank little room, stolen all your money, and then raped and killed you – or else he would've had some compatriots do it for him."

Cat stared up at Mercer disbelievingly. "Why?" she asked, bewildered.

Mercer looked at her almost pityingly and sighed. "Cat," he said with a shake of his head, and then surprisingly he bent down and kissed her.

He pulled back rapidly, as though embarrassed, and started walking again, but Cat still smiled brightly at the show of affection.

After a moment of silence, he grumbled somewhat good-naturedly, "I swear to God, Catherine Whitlock, there is no woman as blindly stupid as you."

"Stupid?" Cat repeated, wounded.

"All right, perhaps that was a bit harsh," he amended. "_Naïve _might be a better way to describe it."

"I am _not!_" Cat exclaimed

Mercer and Savage both rolled their eyes simultaneously. "Cat, love, please tell me honestly: were you going to follow that nasty little git into the alley to look at the rest of his merchandise?" Savage asked.

She pouted slightly. "I was thinking about it," she said sullenly.

"There you are, then," Savage said triumphantly; "Proof that you are ridiculously innocent and shouldn't be let loose anywhere except a ballroom."

"I can't go into ballrooms anymore," Cat reminded him. "I'm a ruined woman, in case you'd forgotten."

Savage glanced somewhat enviously at Mercer. "It's rather difficult to forget when the cause of said ruination is hanging onto you in such an unseemly and sickening display of affection," he said.

"Just keeping her from certain death," Mercer said evenly, completely unruffled, but Cat thought she saw the tiniest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

"Well, that's very convenient for you, isn't it?" Savage said sarcastically. "The woman you happen to have an interest in magically appears onboard the ship, leaving you with the 'unfortunate' burden of protecting her and guarding her from reckless, bad men like me, who might attempt to steal her innocence, which, incidentally, is nonexistent thanks to you -!"

"I thought we just proved that Cat is remarkably innocent for a woman of her level of experience," Mercer pointed out.

"That's not the innocence I'm referring to and you know it," Savage said impatiently.

"All things considered, Lieutenant, I'd rather you not refer to that particular innocence at all," Mercer said lightly, casually moving his pistol nearer to Savage. "Seeing as it's really not your business to begin with and you had absolutely nothing to do with the circumstances surrounding its loss."

Savage glared resentfully at the gun in Mercer's fingers. "I really hate how you have a weapon to back up every threat you make," he informed the clerk.

Mercer smiled. "It's one reason why I'm so damn good at my job," he said.

"When pretty little wenches of ill repute aren't distracting you," Savage said nastily.

"This would be the first woman to ever distract me on a job, and if you call her a wench again I will shoot you in the knee without hesitation," Mercer warned.

Savage spat in the street, having nothing else to do in response to the threat. "So where are we going, anyway?" he mumbled.

"We're going to an English tavern downtown that's run by a contact of mine," Mercer informed the Lieutenant. "It's called the _Wind and Sail_. Run by a man by the name of Winslow Robertson. You might know him."

Savage's eyes momentarily looked as though they would pop from his head. "Winslow Robertson?" he spluttered furiously. "That miserable little upstart stole my first position in the Company!"

"Ah, I thought you might remember him," Mercer said, a smile playing across his features. "Beat you out for your first job aboard a ship, didn't he? You were all set to sail the morning of the departure and the Captain informed you that he'd found somebody better to take your place, so you wouldn't be coming with them."

"Thank you kindly for reminding me of the details," Savage said bitterly. "I remember them very clearly without your little narrations."

"My sincere apologies," Mercer said, very insincerely.

"Well, what the hell is Winslow doing here?" Savage asked. "There was nowhere but up from that position…"

"So you thought," Mercer said with a morbid chuckle. "When the merchant got here, he was slaughtered by some locals who looted the ship and took all its cargo, then set the damn thing on fire. Winslow was left here, dirt poor, and none of the other Company officials would let him come back unless he paid. When Beckett visited the port last time he offered to pay Winslow a nice sum if he'd open a tavern and keep his ears open for the latest rumors. Now the _Wind and Sail_ is the best place to gather gossip and news in Bombay – even the Indians like to drop by every now and again to chat."

Savage started to smile. "Well, that's something of an ignoble post," he said. "Certainly work that's beneath me. I'm relieved, really, that he got the job instead of me. But of course if I'd been in that situation, Beckett wouldn't have forced me to stay in this Godforsaken place and spy for him."

"He would have made the request, the same as he did for Winslow, and you would've refused," Mercer said calmly. "And then he would have killed you."

Savage's smile disappeared. "Beckett knows I'm valuable," he blustered.

"Of course he does," Mercer replied, "As long as you're willing to do what's ordered of you and don't try to reach too high above what you've been given."

Savage's swagger was quite gone now; he looked disturbed, suspicious, and unusually thoughtful. He continued to brood in this way until Mercer turned Cat down a large, open street that was filled with people. As Savage made to turn, an old beggar man stumbled into his path. With a furious snarl, Savage ripped his pistol from his belt and shot the old man, who fell to the ground with a pained cry and lay there bleeding.

Cat gave a tiny scream of horror, and Mercer moved in such a way that his body blocked her view of the beggar. "Feel better now?" he asked Savage in a completely level voice.

Savage bared his teeth, almost like a lion. "Very much so, thanks," he said.

Without another word, Mercer started off again. Cat tugged desperately at his coat. "We can't just _leave_ him there!" she gasped, attempting to look back at the old beggar man.

Mercer paused, caught her face in his gloved hands, and forced her to look only at him. "What's done is done," he told her firmly. "You can't save that man, and neither can I. There's nothing more we can do for him. Leave him there, and someone else will take care of him."

Cat stared up at him, blue eyes overflowing with tears. "You should've stopped him," she said angrily.

"You say that as if I can read minds," Mercer said in exasperation. "How was I to know what Savage was going to do?"

It was somewhat unreasonable, but Cat still felt that Mercer should have guessed Savage's intentions. "The least you can do is _try_ to help him," Cat insisted, her voice shaky but her gaze hard and full of fury.

Mercer heaved a sigh and said, "Lieutenant, please retrieve the man you just shot and bring him to the _Wind and Sail_. We'll see what Winslow can do for him."

Savage snorted in disgust, but he turned and went back towards the old man. Cat tore free of Mercer's iron grip and ran after him. It was probably a wise move on her part – Savage had had no intention of being careful with the fragile old beggar. Cat, however, hovered worriedly over his shoulder as he stepped towards the beggar, then pushed her way in front of him to kneel by the man's side. He stared at her with wide, rich brown eyes that were full of suspicion. "You shot him in the shoulder," she said, glaring hatefully up at Savage.

"Coulda been worse," Savage said offhandedly. "I coulda shot him in the head."

"You son of a bitch," Cat spat, so venomously that Savage actually stopped smiling and took a step back. Mercer arrived just as the terrible oath escaped Cat's lips, and he raised both brows in shock at the foul language.

"Maybe you ought to take care of this," Savage muttered, taking another step back to allow Mercer to move forward.

Mercer stepped slowly towards the old beggar, then knelt by his side, examining the wound. "Well, we might be able to help him," he said dubiously. "The shoulder is one of the most painful places to be shot, so I've no doubt the man's in pain, but Winslow might be able to save him if he can get the bullet out. Course, the wound might go sour and he might die anyway."

"But he might live," Cat said tersely. She glanced up at Mercer with a cool gaze. "I can't lift him myself," she said in a deathly quiet voice.

Mercer obeyed her unspoken command and carefully lifted the beggar, who howled in pain. The trio started off at a quick pace towards the _Wind and Sail,_ which was at the end of the street. Cat forced stragglers out of the doorway as Mercer made his way through, carrying the starving and bleeding beggar man into the dark interior of the tavern. The man was howling with such vehemence and agony that the entire tavern fell silent when they entered.

Winslow, a chestnut-haired man going into his thirties, rushed out from the back room of his tavern with an angry oath. "What in damnation is going on here?" he demanded; then he spotted Mercer holding the old beggar man. "Oh, Mr. Mercer!" he said in surprise, hurrying forward. "I knew you would be here soon, but I didn't expect such a… uh… entrance."

Mercer smiled grimly. "An old friend of yours thought he'd practice his shooting skills on this one," he said, jerking his head back in the direction of Savage, who was leaning casually against the door and pretending to be nonchalant.

Winslow's eyes narrowed. "Ralston," he said in a low voice. "I _hate_ that man."

"Apparently the feeling is mutual," Mercer said, wincing as the beggar screamed in his ear. "Can we please find a room and a doctor for this baggage? I'm getting tired of holding him and if he bleeds much more he'll be dead before we can get him help."

Winslow turned his eyes back to the beggar and nodded quickly. "Well, you don't need to worry about finding him a doctor; I've skills enough to care for him," he said. He looked quizzically up at Mercer. "You're not know for generous acts like this," he said curiously.

Mercer's gaze snapped involuntarily to Catherine, who was standing at the base of the stairs with her arms folded over her chest, her face the picture of feminine wrath. Her hat was folded under her arm, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders, and Mercer fleetingly thought how pretty she was when she was feeling murderous. He'd never seen her so angry before in all the time he'd known her.

"Ah… I see," Winslow said understandingly, drawing Mercer back to the situation at hand. Winslow eyed Mercer a bit disapprovingly. "She's… rather young, isn't she?" he said, and Mercer knew what he meant. _You're too old for a young thing like that._

"Bloody hell, Winslow, we can talk about her later if you're so damn curious," Mercer snapped. "This man is bloody _dying_."

"Right, right," Winslow said, shaking his head in embarrassment. "Right this way, if you please. You come too, Miss…?"

"Welborne," Mercer said hurriedly before Cat could give her real name. "Seraphina Welborne."

Winslow cocked an eyebrow, looking the young girl up and down. "Pretty prestigious name for a poor girl," he murmured to Mercer.

"Her parents had high aspirations for her, and instead they got me," Mercer said shortly. "Can we _please_ take care of this man? If he screams one more time I may go deaf."

"Yes, up we go," Winslow said, quickly vaulting up the stairs with Mercer in tow and Cat behind him. Savage got out of the doorway and followed a good distance behind them, looking depressed.

"Seraphina Welborne?" Cat whispered to Mercer. "Don't you think that's a little obvious?"

"It's the best I could do on such short notice," Mercer hissed back at her. "And _you_ were going to give him your real name!"

"So?" Cat snapped. "It's not as if he'd know who I was. Not that many people actually recognize my name when they hear it."

"Cat, my ridiculously naïve little seraph, _yes_, they do," he said in frustration.

It was unfortunate that Cat was behind him, because the smile that blossomed on Cat's face would have brightened his day considerably. "Is that where Seraphina came from?" she asked quietly.

Mercer flushed darkly and then did his best to hide it. "Maybe," he said tersely.

Fortunately, he was saved from further interrogation due to their arrival at Winslow's most spacious upper room. "Here," Winslow said, standing aside so they could slip in through the door. "This ought to suit for the purpose."

Mercer carried the old man over to the bed and laid him down. The man gave another cry of agony and started speaking rapidly to Winslow in a foreign language that neither Mercer nor Cat understood.

"What's he saying?" she asked quietly.

"He's asking me to end the pain," Winslow told her. "He's speaking Hindi. I know him, actually; his name's Jayant. He likes to visit with me every now and again. We're friends."

"I'm sorry Savage shot him," Mercer said, although he was more sorry about that fact due to all the trouble said shooting was currently causing him.

"Well, I'm not sorry at all," Savage said from the doorway. "Nasty buggers deserve to die."

"Ah, Savage," Winslow said sourly, refusing to look at the door and instead focusing on his charge. "How charming to see you again. Welcome to my humble abode."

"'Humble' is the polite word for it," Savage said disdainfully. "I'm amazed this ramshackle place makes any money. Doesn't Beckett _pay_ you?"

"More than he would ever pay you," Winslow replied icily. "But unlike you, I choose to wisely invest my funds so that they'll be on hand in case of an emergency."

"You ought to try living like me sometime," Savage suggested. "Then maybe you'd relax a little and stop acting like someone had shoved their cutlass up your arse."

Winslow stood up and brushed his hands off on his breeches, ignoring the remark. "If you don't mind, gents – miss – I have to get a few supplies from downstairs and send for an Indian healer – men like Jayant want to have their countrymen close at hand in situations like this, and anyway some of those healers know a hell of a lot more than any English doctor I ever met," he said. "I'll be back. Keep an eye on him – and try not to shoot him again, Savage."

"I'll see what I can do," Savage said, "But I don't promise nothing."

"Mercer, can't you shoot him if he steps out of line?" Winslow asked.

"If he irritates me too much," Mercer replied, casually tapping his fingers on the butt of his pistol. Savage sneered in contempt, but his eyes were defeated.

"Well, shoot him if he even looks like he's headed for that pistol," Winslow advised. "I'll give you free lodgings for the week if you do."

"Well, hell, I'll just shoot him now," Mercer said, tugging his pistol out of his belt.

"Very funny," Savage glowered. "You're _so_ amusing."

"We try," Winslow said airily as he slipped out of the room.

Savage watched him go with a hateful stare. "I _really _abhor that man," he muttered.

"Funny, he said the exact same thing about you when we first came in," Mercer said, slipping his pistol back into his belt.

"I'm on Winslow's side," Cat said, shooting a nasty glare in Savage's direction.

Savage groaned. "And that will of course mean that Mercer's on your side as well," he said.

"I would have been on Winslow's side anyway," Mercer said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "I've always liked him."

"Doomed from the start!" Savage exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. "I was destined to be loveless and uncared for!"

"Oh, do shut up, Savage," Cat snapped.

Jayant emitted another groan from the bed, and Cat's head snapped towards him, her eyes softening immediately. She hurried to his bedside and took his hand in hers, studying him worriedly. "You'll be all right," she said soothingly, stroking his trembling fingers in hers. "Easy now; you'll be all right."

Jayant weakly turned to look at her, studying her with a surprisingly sharp gaze. His lips trembled as he smiled feebly; maybe he couldn't understand what she was saying, but he knew it was of a kindly and comforting nature. She smiled bravely and squeezed his hand.

Mercer watched with a tiny twinge of jealousy. Silently he wondered how in hell he was going to make things work between himself and Cat. Not only did they come from completely different worlds; they had two completely different sets of beliefs. And Cat was certainly not used to the lifestyle that Mercer led; obviously she didn't like traveling by ship, and she had already told him she wanted to be dressed as a woman again despite the danger it posed to her. It was altogether too complicated, and it was driving him to distraction.

Unfortunately, he had other things to think about at the moment. "When Winslow returns, remember that Catherine Whitlock is safely back home in London, where she should be," Mercer told Savage. "This woman with us is Seraphina Welborne."

Savage looked impressed. "Good name," he said. "Has a snobby ring to it that suggests those idiots in the lower class who think their daughters will marry rich men if they have ridiculously ostentatious names."

Mercer nodded shortly; his parents had been that type. He was fairly certain that Savage's parents had been of the same make – there was no other explanation for a name like 'Ralston Savage.' One either had to be rich or pretending to be rich to carry a name like that. Even the name 'Cutler Beckett' bore those pretensions to wealth.

Winslow returned, an Indian man dressed in a tunic and loose, baggy breeches following closely behind him. "This is Ghoshal; he's the local doctor for these parts," he said, by way of introduction. "Ghoshal, this is Mr. Mercer and Lieutenant Savage of the East India Trading Company, and that is Miss Welborne."

Ghoshal bowed to each of them in turn and murmured, "Namaste."

Cat glanced curiously at him. "What does that mean?" she asked Winslow.

"It means 'the Divine in me honors the Divine in you,'" Ghoshal said, his English heavily accented but nearly perfect otherwise. "It is an old way of greeting for our holy men."

Cat seemed quite taken with the phrase. "Namaste," she repeated to herself.

Ghoshal smiled at her reverent tone, then lightly laid a hand on her shoulder. "If you will pardon me, Miss Welborne," he said politely. "I need to look at Jayant."

"Of course," Cat said quickly, getting to her feet and moving aside.

Jayant looked very relieved to have Ghoshal there. He started speaking rapidly in Hindi, gesturing with his good arm to the various people in the room while Ghoshal examined the wound, nodding and making soft sounds to indicate he was listening. Occasionally he asked a question in Hindi, which would set Jayant off again. The old man's voice was cracked and frail, but he was saying as much as he could with what energy was left him.

Casting a slightly disparaging glance in Savage's direction, Ghoshal said softly, "I will need to be alone with Jayant for now," he said. "I will see what I can do for him. But, if he does not survive, he wants to thank you for your kindness, Miss Welborne. He speaks very highly of your generous spirit."

Cat blushed. "I've barely done anything for him," she said abashedly.

"You may have saved his life," Ghoshal said with a gentle smile. "I think that is something – don't you?"

Cat smiled sweetly at the doctor, which was enough to make Mercer green with envy. Then, heedless of the audience, Cat hurried over to Mercer and grabbed his hand, twining her fingers in his and wrapping her other arm around his waist. The envy evaporated in an instant.

Winslow took them downstairs and led them into a separate back room, away from the other guests, who were happily conversing with one another, having apparently forgotten the wounded old man upstairs. He closed the door firmly behind them, then motioned for them to sit. "I won't ask what inspired you to shoot Jayant," he said, glaring at Savage, "But I have to admit that I'm very curious as to why you're here. Lord Beckett's letter didn't give a reason for your presence, but he said you'd be making inquiries."

"And you, Winslow, are the best person to whom one should make inquiries," Mercer said with a small grin, feeling absurdly elated due to the fact that Cat was resting her head on his shoulder. "We're in search of a particular person, as well as a certain treasure."

"Treasure, eh?" Winslow said with a knowing nod. "There's a good deal of that in these parts, and a whole lot of rumors about what's here. Do you know exactly what you're looking for?"

The trio exchanged glances. "Not exactly," Mercer admitted. "We know its name, though, and the person who is supposed to be tracking it."

"Give me the names and I'll share what I know with you," Winslow told him.

"First and foremost, we need to find a Frenchman who goes by the last name _Bussiere_," Mercer said, leaning forward on the table. "Heard of him?"

Surprise, then amusement flickered across Winslow's face. "Oh, yes, I know Bussiere," he said. "She's staying here, fortunately for you."

Mercer blinked in surprise. "She?" he repeated.

Winslow grinned. "Yes," he said with a nod. "Miss Ancelote Bussiere. She's the daughter of a French trader; speaks Arabic and Hindu and a few rarer languages. She's particularly well versed in the lore of this area. If anybody could lead you to a rare treasure here, it would be her." He also leaned forward, eagerly now. "And what, exactly, is this treasure that you want?"

"It's called the Hand," Mercer said. "Heard of it?"

Winslow's eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, gaping at the three of them. "The Hand?" he repeated, stunned.

"Yes," Mercer said suspiciously. "Why so astonished?"

Winslow exhaled sharply. "It's just… a very ambitious project," he said with a shake of his head.

"It won't be a problem," Mercer said, waving a hand. "Just tell us what it is."

"Can't you guess?" Winslow said incredulously. "It's the Hand of Midas."


	9. The Hand and the Healing

CHAPTER 9

For a moment, there was stunned silence in the back room of the _Wind and Sail_ as the cluster around Winslow Robertson sat gaping at him in fleeting disbelief. Then, Savage finally spoke up.

"What the hell is the Hand of Midas?" he demanded.

Mercer rolled his eyes, and Cat looked disgusted. "You have absolutely _no_ classical education, do you?" she said disdainfully.

"Never seemed important," Savage chuckled

"Well, it's important now," Cat said irritably. "Mr. Robertson, would you care to elaborate?"

"Certainly, Miss Welborne," Winslow said with a polite incline of his head. "An ancient Greek legend tells of the great King Midas, who loved wealth and money so much that he wished that everything he touched would turn into gold. His wish was granted, but he soon discovered that the food he ate turned to gold before he could swallow it, as did the wine he wanted to drink. He knew he would starve, but he stubbornly refused to see his folly – until he embraced his beloved daughter and _she_ turned into gold. Then he begged that the gift be rescinded, and supposedly it was."

Savage whistled appreciatively. "Damn, but that's a gift I would _never_ ask to rescind," he said. "I'd be rich for the rest of my life without ever having to work for it."

"That _would_ be your dream, wouldn't it?" Mercer said contemptuously. Money neither interested nor motivated Mercer, and he couldn't begin to fathom how it could have such draw to others.

"So, if the curse was withdrawn from Midas, then how does the Hand play into the story?" Cat asked curiously. Mercer smiled slightly at her choice to use the word "curse" rather than "gift."

Winslow leaned forward secretively. "There is _another_ legend about that – an addendum, if you will, to the first," he said in a low, excited voice. "That legend claims that the gift was never _actually_ taken from Midas; that Midas' hands themselves turned to gold, and that in his despair at his daughter's transformation, he had both of them cut off. Nobody knows for certain where the Hands have gone to, but some are better able to guess than others."

"Miss Bussiere being one of them, I assume," Mercer murmured thoughtfully.

Winslow nodded. "I believe so, yes," he said.

"So there are two of them, then?" Savage said, a greedy glint in his eye.

Winslow shook his head slowly. "There _used_ to be two of them, according to the legend," he said. "But apparently there's some secret organization after the total destruction of both the Hands. According to every rumor I've heard, they destroyed the first Hand about a hundred years back. The second Hand, however, is still in existence somewhere – where, I don't know, and how it's escaped the Gold Eaters I'll never understand…"

"The Gold Eaters?" Mercer repeated.

"They're the organization to which I referred earlier," Winslow explained. "They hunt down particularly valuable artifacts in this part of the world and destroy them, to keep greedy Europeans from getting their hands on them – and to make certain their own people don't break trust and sell them to become rich. They hate the rich among us – so you'd best watch yourself, Mercer. If they hear who you're working for and what you're after, they'll be out for blood. They _despise_ the Company – and they've heard Beckett's name more than once before now."

Mercer wasn't particularly concerned with the threat, but he _was_ irritated. It sounded as though there was yet another barrier to prevent him from completing his mission – and that was the last thing he needed. If it all possible, he wanted to return to London alive, with all his body parts intact, hopefully with Catherine in the same condition, and with the Hand safely in Beckett's possession. That was beginning to seem less and less likely already.

Deciding to ponder the logistics of the mission later, Mercer said, "We're looking for some other people, as well."

"Christ, Mercer; how many people are you _looking_ for?" Winslow snorted. "Who else?"

"Captain Tyris Burton and his crew," Mercer informed him. "They're pirate scum, the lot of them. They sail onboard the pirate ship _Redemption,_ which you made have heard of. Beckett wants their heads."

Winslow raised both brows at that. "Beckett wants every pirate's head," he pointed out. "Why these ones particularly?"

"Company business, Winslow, and therefore _not_ yours," Mercer said shortly. "Just tell me where they are, and you'll be well compensated."

At the mention of compensation Winslow leaned forward eagerly. "How _much_ will I be compensated?" he questioned.

Mercer casually laid his pistol on top of the table and pointed it at the inn's proprietor. "The price," he said evenly, "Is not negotiable. It's plenty, I'll promise you that."

Winslow eyed the gun and Mercer in turn, uncertain if he should challenge Mercer's pledge. Wisely, he opted not to. "They've been through here every now and again the past few months, asking after Miss Bussiere like you," he said. "But they keep leaving to plunder some more. They've got to live, after all, and they need money to do so. I imagine they'll be back soon, though; we haven't seen them for nigh two months now. Miss Bussiere has asked me to keep a lookout for them. I suppose you want to intercept her before she meets with them?"

Mercer nodded shortly. "We'd rather she was on our side," he said with a small grin. "She's apparently been hired to lead Tyris and his crew to the Hand. Obviously such a treasure should not fall into the hands of filth like them."

"Obviously," Winslow said dryly. "God forbid they actually become wealthy enough to stop plundering and thus become part of the aristocracy."

"That's the hell of the matter," Mercer said, glaring dangerously at Winslow. "They _wouldn't_ stop plundering, no matter how rich they got. It's in their blood, Winslow; they _like_ breaking laws and spitting in the King's face. It brings them a sick sort of joy. They like to call it 'freedom.'"

"Doesn't sound so bad to me," Savage said.

"Then you can join them," Mercer said, casting Savage a wrathful glance. "And you can _die_ with them, too, if that's your wish."

"I'd like to live a bit longer, thanks," Savage muttered sullenly. "But how, exactly, are we going to get this Bussiere girl to help us?" He grinned widely. "I can seduce her if you like," he offered.

Cat laughed raucously at that. "Oh, yes, that'll be brilliant," she said sarcastically. "You'll use your completely nonexistent wit and charm to woo her until she can't possibly be parted from you, and thusly she'll agree to help us, and pirate gold be damned." She stopped laughing and shook her head disparagingly at Savage. "Don't be daft, lieutenant," she said, serious now. "I doubt she came here – and came to be known here – through fits of feminine passion. And anyway, I've rarely found that women fall instantly in love with men like yourself."

Savage glared narrowly at her. "I could get information out of her without her love," he snarled.

"And leave her for the pirates to use as well?" Winslow demanded. "That's bloody brilliant, Savage."

"I didn't say she'd stay alive," Savage said darkly.

"You're a sick bastard, and I hope you die," Cat spat, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm going upstairs to see how Jayant's faring. You'll find me there if you need me."

Before she could depart, Mercer leapt up and grabbed her arm. "You're not going alone," he growled.

"Oh, for pity's sake, David!" she exclaimed. "It's just in the inn! Can't you trust me enough to let me alone even in here?"

"It's not you I don't trust," Mercer said ominously, glancing at Savage again.

Winslow stood up quickly. "Mercer's right, Miss Welborne; this is a dangerous place for a young woman who's alone. _I'll_ go with you." He looked over at Mercer. "May I assume that will be acceptable to you?" he asked.

Mercer didn't look particularly pleased with the arrangements, but he nodded after a moment's consideration. "I suppose I can trust you with her for a bit," he sighed. After looking her over for another moment, he stepped very close to Cat and took her other hand in his. She felt something cold and hard pressed against her palm – a dagger in a small sheath. Mercer's body blocked it from being seen by the other two men. He embraced her quickly and hissed in her ear, "Inner pocket of your coat. Hide it there. And for God's sake, _use_ it if the need arises." With that, he stepped back and asked, in a completely level voice, "And in what room might we find Miss Bussiere?"

"Third floor, furthest room down the left hand side of the corridor," Winslow said automatically. He gently took Cat's arm and brought her towards the door. "Come along, Miss Welborne. We'll check on Jayant together."

Cat shivered slightly at the strange weight on the right side of her coat even as she tried to nod in a natural manner. She glanced back nervously at Mercer, hoping to read something comforting in his expression – but his face only reflected the same apprehension in hers. She didn't believe she could come to any harm in the inn, but she didn't like the thought of having to defend herself with the weapon Mercer had handed her…

Silently she followed Winslow out, praying to God she would never have to.

* * *

Victoria paced anxiously inside the Rose House, hands twisting and tangling the skirt of her shift as she walked. _Bloody hell, bloody face, bloody pirates, bloody God…_ Her mind whispered a thousand angry oaths in her ear while she desperately attempted to ignore them. Her impatience and her fear were palpable forces in the room, almost as real and present as she.

She jumped and looked up with wide eyes when the door to the Rose House swung open. Beckett stepped inside the door, swathed in a dark black cloak that was dripping with rain, his wig protected by a wide-brimmed tricorner hat. He swept off the cloak in one smooth gesture, a shower of silvery raindrops falling to the floor as he did so. He removed his hat, then set down both the hat and a package he had under his arm on a small table by the door. He glanced over at Victoria with a small smirk beginning to grow. "I haven't seen you look so nervous in my presence since the first day I brought you here," he laughed. "Frightened, are we?"

"Oh, of course not," Victoria said bitingly. "It's just my face."

Beckett chuckled. "It's going to be perfectly fine, Victoria," he assured her, shrugging off his frock coat and tossing it atop the soaking cloak – a gesture that made Victoria wince.

"Why do you always have to be so careless with your coats?" she demanded in irritation. "Those things are bloody expensive!"

"And since you're not the one paying for them, I hardly see how it matters," Beckett said, but he bent and swept the coat off the floor anyway, setting it with considerably more care on the small table beside the door. With easy and measured steps, he turned and walked around the divan, removing Morgan's Book from the crook of his arm and opening it, starting to flip through its multitudinous pages for the spell he intended to use. Victoria bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet, now twisting her shift even more than before.

"Careful, dear, or you'll tear your shift to shreds," Beckett said in amusement. "Ah, here we are." He looked up at her almost eagerly, almost apprehensively. "Are you ready, then?"

She sucked in a deep breath, smiled and nodded, the picture of the beautiful faerie maiden she had seen in the Book firmly planted in her mind. _You'll be beautiful when he's through, _she assured herself. _You'll be beautiful, you'll be stunning_, _don't be afraid, you'll be beautiful…_

He knelt on the floor, setting the book before him, and carefully lifted his walking cane. He looked up and stared intently at her, eyes narrowed in concentration. He said nothing, but Victoria knew he was picturing her face, and what he wanted it to become. Her skin started to tingle, and she let her eyes flutter closed as the sensation overtook her entire body. Scars that had been left elsewhere were being mended; her face was knitting itself back together perfectly. It was an odd feeling; it didn't exactly burn or freeze, but she felt as though her skin were melting and shifting about. She could almost listen to it as it worked itself back into place, shifting and changing.

After a few long moments, the sensation ceased, and Victoria felt incredibly – _normal_. Elated, her eyes flew open, and she lifted the small mirror in her hands upwards to look at her face – and froze.

She looked exactly as she felt – normal – except for one thing: there, running from her eye to her nose, was one long, silvery scar.

She looked up at him with deeply disappointed eyes. "Maybe you should try again," she said fearfully. "It didn't really work."

"Actually," Beckett said hesitantly, "It did."

She stared blankly at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I still have a scar, and anyway I look -!" Realization slowly dawned on her. "What spell were you using?" she demanded icily.

"Tori -!" Beckett started.

"_What spell were you using_?"

He sighed. "I just felt that the spell for beauty was a bit… unnecessary," he said, carefully avoiding her gaze. "I understand that you'd like to be beautiful – most women would – but I don't know if that's the best decision for you."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, and she studied him coldly. "You thought it would be better," she said slowly, her voice laced with rage, "To leave me looking like _this_?"

"There's nothing wrong with the way you look," Beckett said tartly, glancing up at her.

"Oh, of course not!" Victoria said shrilly, trying to choke back her fury. "There's only an enormous, ugly scar slashing across my face! What in God's name is wrong with that?"

"Absolutely _nothing_," Beckett said firmly. "You were attacked by pirates. They scarred you spiritually, and the mark on your face reflects that. Nobody can expect you to emerge from a pirate attack looking perfect – and I _do_ intend to share your kidnapping with the aristocracy, finally, as an explanation for your seclusion over the past months."

"And won't they all be _so_ delighted to see the damage done to me?" Victoria spat, bitter tears starting to spill down her cheeks. "I thought this was about good appearances for the aristocracy."

"Victoria, you have one scar," he said in exasperation. "_One scar._ Compare that to the thirteen you had before on your face. Don't you think that's an improvement?"

"But I could have been improved even _further_ if you'd used the right spell," she cried. "What the hell did you _do_ to me, anyway?"

Beckett sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. "There's a spell here for healing old wounds – scars, broken bones, _anything_," he explained. "It was infinitely simpler for me to cast and was far less taxing on me personally, for starters; and furthermore it mostly restored your face to its state before the pirates attacked you, which is how everyone you know besides Rose and Presbery will remember you. The one scar makes your attack, your suffering, and your seclusion sound infinitely more plausible. I think they'd all be rather skeptical if I told them you'd been attacked by pirates and then turned up at the next opera with some faerie goddess whom I claimed was you, don't you agree?"

All of what he'd said made sense, but that only nettled Victoria. She'd been thinking about the page with the exquisitely beautiful woman for months, silently hoping that soon it would be her; to find that Beckett didn't want to cast the spell and _hadn't,_ without even informing her of the change first, was beyond infuriating. "You could use my good looks to your advantage," she insisted. "Don't you think all the other lords will be jealous when they see what I've blossomed into over the past months?"

"They hate me enough as it is," Beckett said, rolling his eyes slightly. "God knows I don't need to give them another reason."

Victoria clenched her fists wrathfully – she was not willing to let go of her dream so easily. "You're not objecting out of concern for me at all, are you?" she snarled. "You're doing it for some personal advantage that I can't even begin to fathom!"

"I do everything for my personal advantage," Beckett drawled. "Surely you knew that by now, pet."

The infuriating nickname put her over the edge. "Oh, that's rich," she sneered. "Lord Beckett wants his wife to be a hag, because it _works to his advantage_."

Now it was his turn to get angry. "That's not at all the reason," he snapped.

"Well, what _is_ the reason, then?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring challengingly at him. "Do you _like_ having me ugly, so I can't outshine you? Or are you keeping some pretty little whore somewhere on your property that I don't know about?"

"You're being ridiculous, Victoria," Beckett said heatedly, starting to turn away from her.

"Am I indeed?" Victoria said tartly. "You'll forgive me, however, if I don't understand your logic. I would think that you would _want_ your wife to be extraordinarily beautiful."

"She _is_ beautiful," Beckett said furiously, turning back to her with such speed that she took a step back. There was fire in his blue eyes as he stared her down. "She was before and she is now, whether or not _she_ realizes it. And I'd rather have my old Victoria back than create a new, vain, proud, and insufferable one, if you don't mind. I didn't marry you just to watch you become another Emma Clark!"

Victoria stared at him, thunderstruck. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he was looking back at her with the most peculiar mixture of anger, adoration, and sadness. She had never thought of how such a transformation might affect her vanity, but she could picture it now that Beckett had presented the possibility to her – her ethereal, faerie-like appearance, her sudden confidence in her own looks, her admiration of her own face. She would forget that it was fabricated and think of it as her own; she would boast and brag about beauty that should never have been hers. She would primp and preen and flaunt it to those who had mocked her before, and she would become the empty, selfish woman that Beckett had spent most of his bachelorhood avoiding. "You… you really think that's what would happen?" she asked tremulously.

His eyes were still smoldering as he looked at her. "I believe in you enough to think it wouldn't happen immediately, but you wouldn't be able to wait to gloat," he said, his voice calmer now. "And you'll already be staring at yourself in the mirror enough, even with the simple changes I've made for you now…"

Well, that was probably true enough; but one quick glance in the mirror confirmed her disappointed dreams – there was only her old face there, not beautiful really, just nondescript Victoria with a scar on her cheek. "But, Cutler, wouldn't it -?" she started, but he cut her off imperiously.

"_No_, Tori," he said vehemently. "I don't _want_ some new, strange, faerie-blessed Victoria; I want _you_, just as you are – human imperfections and all."

The words were astonishingly tender for Beckett, and the feeling behind them mollified her. Still, it was hard to let go of the image of the beautiful faerie maiden. "You could have at least taken away all of the scars," she said despondently. "If you'd wanted to you could have altered the reports and said the pirates didn't attack my face."

"I _liked _your scars," Beckett informed her. She cast him an incredulous glance, and he smiled wanly. "I did," he assured her. "They're as much a part of you as your noise or your hair or your hands. I was only willing to change them because I know how the aristocracy would have reacted to them – and I don't think you deserve that." He tilted his head slightly to the side and examined her. "You're not convinced."

"Not entirely, no," she admitted.

He turned and went to the table by the doorway where he'd set his coat and hat. She'd been so nervous before that she hadn't really noticed the other book he'd brought with him, carefully wrapped in fabric to protect it from the elements. He unwrapped it and brought it over to her, laying it in her lap. "Look," he ordered.

She flipped it open the first page and found herself starting at – herself. She looked up in surprise at Beckett. "Sketches? Of me?" she said. "I knew Rose had found them, but I didn't look at them while she was here."

"Rose found them, did she?" he said softly. "I'm surprised you didn't peek. But I suppose now is a better time to see them."

"Perhaps," Victoria murmured. She considered her mirror image on the page before her. She had counted the thirteen scars on her face innumerable times, traced them with her eyes until they were almost familiar, old friends. She could trace them now on this penciled face with her eyes closed. She smiled a little sadly and said, "I named all of the scars at one point… just out of boredom."

"Did you," Beckett said with a laugh. "What did you name them?"

"Oh, I forgot all their names the first time I did it," she said with a wry chuckle. "I had to rename them a week later when my journal was on hand. I can't remember them at the moment, but the list is in there."

Beckett looked both amused and slightly disdainful at the idea of naming scars, but rather than commenting further he said, "Mercer told me once that the scars added a certain character to your face – that they made you into something entirely unique. And the first night I sketched you, I wanted to capture the movement of your scars when you smiled and play it over and over again. It was just… serene. Beautiful, in its own way."

"It felt odd, though," she said, wrinkling her nose. "I could feel them stretching sometimes. I hated it at first, but I got used to it." She turned several pages, pondering different portraits in silence. Abruptly, she continued, "Oscar told me they made him think of shooting stars streaking across my face – like faeries had left star trails there after planting tiny kisses on my skin." She touched the sketched scars with delicate fingers. "I hated them," she said angrily. "I hated them, and I embraced them, depending on the day and who I saw. I struggled with them, and I wanted nothing more than to be free of them."

"And yet, you learned from them."

She considered that with a thoughtful frown, brows furrowed as she turned the page to study another sketch. "Yes, I suppose I did," she said softly.

And with the casting of a spell, they were gone without a trace. Almost an entire year of her life had been erased; the evidence of the crime against her, the reason for the hardening of her heart, the sole sign of the event that had forced her to grow and mature in a matter of days – had just disappeared… except for that single scar that Beckett had left on her cheek.

She touched the scar with soft fingers as she traced the other, penciled scars on the page. She heaved a sigh and flipped the sketchbook closed, letting her hand drop away from the scar on her face. "Being plain human-looking Victoria won't be so bad, I suppose," she said with a little laugh.

"You've been her before; I can't imagine it will be too difficult to step into the role again," Beckett said, an oddly gentle edge to his voice.

She bit her lip and nodded slowly; then, after a moment, she said, "You're right, of course. You always are."

He smiled widely. "Ah, you've finally learned," he said in slight amusement. "I'm always right about everything."

She cast him a sly glance. "Except for the sex of your baby," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "You can't begin to hope to be right about that."

He touched her now-swelling belly with loving fingers. "We'll just see about that, won't we?" he said with a dangerous smirk.

Victoria grinned widely. "Oh, yes," she agreed, "We will."

And, oddly enough, she felt lighter somehow – more settled, more herself than before. She had her old face back, and one scar to remind her of what she'd suffered. Two parts, merged into a whole.

She was Victoria, completed.


	10. Bussiere and the Ball

CHAPTER 10

Ancelote Bussiere was a woman used to enjoying a good deal of secrecy in her life. She was the bastard daughter of a French merchant named Olivier Bussiere, and he'd kept her hidden for the vast majority of her life. Her mother, a lovely but poor wench by the name of Ninon Patenaude, had had no assets to speak of and thusly had been left in the dirt to care for her child on her own. If Ninon had let him, Olivier probably never would have seen Ancelote – but Ninon would have none of that. She threatened him continuously, finally swearing to expose him to his wealthy sweetheart, Sabine Faurot. After that he finally began to visit his little girl, bringing her presents and always looking about furtively lest he be caught.

Since that time, Ancelote had had to keep many secrets - her mother's status as mistress to an important diplomat; her father's store of smuggled objects, which were hidden in Ninon's storeroom; the sailor working for Olivier with whom Ancelote had once fallen in love; that same sailor's love affair with a girl named Narcisse, who was far prettier than Ancelote; and on and on into the years. Secrets were Ancelote's life, and thusly she had made a business of them, in the form of peddling information.

Ancelote had been traveling the globe for a few years now, typically as a stowaway via her father's ship. She made it her business to learn everything she could about wherever they landed, and then she kept hold of that information until it was needed. Then she sold it for ridiculously high prices. She lived meagerly and saved most of her earnings in a safe place at Ninon's. She had a small fortune saved; enough that she could live comfortably for quite a few years if she chose.

If she was being honest with herself, though, the life she had chosen thrilled her. She disguised herself as a man wherever she went, although most soon discovered that she was in fact a woman; she saw parts of the world that most women, especially those of her station, could never even dream of visiting; she was constantly desired and sought after because of her valuable store of information; and when she was on land she rarely had a dull day. Retirement was certainly an option, but it wasn't something that twenty-six-year-old Ancelote wanted.

She had originally been planning to stop traveling after her last trip – a trip to China for silk, where she had sold someone some information on the Pirate Lord Sao Feng and had almost been killed for it. Ninon's diplomat lover wanted both Ninon and her daughter to move to his country estate with him, and at first Ancelote had relished the idea of gathering up information on the French Court and selling it to the nobles. Her excitement at this idea had quickly waned when the diplomat had displayed a clearer interest in Ancelote than in Ninon. "Twenty-six, and no husband," he'd said to her mother in mock sympathy. "The poor virgin girl… how she must suffer…"

Being a virgin was no burden to Ancelote, and she had no desire to freely hand her body over to the corpulent slug her mother had chosen to work for. So she had been quick to accept Tyris Burton's proposition for information. Never mind that he was a pirate, even though she disliked pirates a great deal – she had to escape France before she was forced into virtual enslavement like poor Ninon.

This was how Ancelote had found herself in the English-controlled port of Bombay, in far-off exotic India. Ancelote had been to Bombay many times before in her time, and she was relatively well-known in the area – hence the reason Tyris Burton had come to her seeking information on the legendary treasure of Midas's Hand. She was an expert on the lore of this part of Asia, and she was one of the only people who knew the location of the Hand. This alone was enough to make her something of a celebrity in Bombay, and rumors flew about her throughout the city and a fair ways beyond – doubtlessly, this was how Tyris had found her.

Nonetheless, she was generally left alone and expected that privacy to be respected. So she was more than a little surprised when there came a sudden banging on her door. She froze and stared at the wooden slab standing between her and the intruder, eyes wide. She didn't speak; instead, her hand began creeping towards the pistol lying on her small bed just a few inches away.

Another knock came on the door. "Miss Bussiere?" The accent was English, but lower class – more provincial than those Ancelote was used to hearing. Generally she had spoken only to young English aristocrats' sons wasting their early years in the French Court's debauchery, and their accents were far more well bred and elegant than this man's.

"Who asks for her?" Ancelote called suspiciously, grabbing the pistol and cocking it. Her French accent added a delicate lilt to her voice, belying her much harder, colder nature.

"That's neither here nor there," the man answered. "We have a business proposition for her."

Ancelote's eyes narrowed. "Miss Bussiere is not here for your pleasure, gentlemen," she said coldly, assuming that by 'we' her mysterious visitor meant there was at least one other man with him.

The man speaking laughed. "It's not that kind of proposition," he said. "We have heard rumors of some information Miss Bussiere has – information regarding a certain treasure in the area."

Ancelote pointed the pistol at the door, chewing her lip thoughtfully as she listened. "Miss Bussiere has a good deal of information about this area," she said. "But it does not come cheaply."

"We're willing to pay."

"How much?"

"More than Tyris Burton has offered you."

Ancelote let the pistol drop to her side and her mouth hang open, momentarily stunned. She was very careful to protect her clients and to keep her business dealings to herself – so she had no idea how anyone, let alone an Englishman, would have discovered her agreement with the pirate captain. "No one was to know of that arrangement," she said coldly.

"It's hard to keep secrets from Lord Beckett, Mademoiselle Bussiere."

She inhaled sharply. She knew of Lord Beckett, of course. As Olivier was a French merchant, he railed against the infamous lord regularly – about how he had taken over the seas, and how he controlled every business transaction ever to occur in the world, even by merchants not under his command. She had always held a certain admiration for the man, even though she had never met him personally and even though his death grip on trade should have infuriated her. "I didn't realize Lord Beckett had a spy network," she said, struggling to keep her voice level.

"A smart woman such as you should have thought as much a long time ago," the man outside disdainfully. "Can we talk business now? It's difficult to come to an understanding through a large wooden door."

Ancelote hesitated, then carefully hid her pistol in her skirt. She strode across the room, unlocked the door, and pulled it open, looking over the two men standing before her with considerable condescension. "_You're_ the best Beckett has?" she said incredulously. The tallest man in front of her looked like nothing special; he was plainly getting older, his face creased with wrinkles and scars, and he wore a rumpled old brown suit. The man behind him was dark-haired and probably younger, although it was hard to tell through the mass of scars on his face. He was grinning wolfishly at her, and she almost wanted to pull her pistol from its hiding place and shoot him right there.

"You don't look like much either, Mademoiselle," the man in front said with a small smile. "But I don't plan to underestimate you."

"Smarter than you look," she groused. She stepped aside to allow them in. "So you know of my deal with Tyris Burton. I don't suppose you know where he is?"

"We assumed you would have that information," the elder man said. He held out his hand to shake. "Mr. Mercer at your service," he said. "And that's Savage."

"_Lieutenant _Savage," Savage corrected irritably.

Mercer waved a hand carelessly. "Savage," he repeated. "We're willing to offer you _double_ what Tyris has offered you if you'll lead us to the Hand."

Ancelote kept her expression blank, but inwardly her heart leapt. _Double?_ She could use that much money to run anywhere in the world. She'd never have to work again – and she'd never have to fear the damn diplomat waiting for her back in Paris. "I can give you the information that will lead you to the Hand -" she started.

Mercer held up a hand to stop her. "We want you to take us there," he said calmly. "We know you've traveled there before. You'll know the dangers, the landmarks to look for – everything we need. You will go with us."

That was something Ancelote hadn't bargained on. "That was not part of Tyris's agreement with me," she protested.

Mercer smiled icily. "This is not Tyris's agreement, is it?" he said.

Ancelote crossed her arms over her chest. "If I lead you there, I'll expect a higher payment."

Mercer inclined his head gracefully. "That can be arranged," he said.

Ancelote hesitated, but the bargain seemed almost too good to refuse. She would be paid enough to support herself for the rest of her life, and she'd have an excuse to stay away from Paris. "Then we are agreed," she said, holding out her hand to shake on it.

Instead of taking it, Mercer arched a brow. "One more thing," he said. "These… _pirates_. They're something of a nuisance to Lord Beckett. He wants them exterminated. If that's to be the case, we'll need you to meet with Tyris and arrange a location to meet him. We'll see to the rest from there."

Ancelote arched an eyebrow. She had no love of pirates, but murder was not usually a part of her dealings. "I don't play a direct role in assassinations, Mr. Mercer," she said.

"I'm not asking you to do any such thing," he replied. "I'm paying you to help us in the pursuit of justice. It's a perfectly reasonable request."

"I'll expect more extra payment for it."

"Will triple the price Tyris offered you suffice?"

She grinned. "Agreed," she said elatedly, and this time when she held out her hand to shake, Mercer took it.

The deal was sealed. Ancelote would betray her former client – something with which she was not entirely comfortable – but she would be able to buy her freedom – forever.

For that alone, it was worth it.

* * *

Charlotta Harris was dressed in her most ostentatious gown that night – a new one she had insisted on purchasing, covered in bows and lace and dripping with jewels. If she had had any taste she would have realized how ridiculous she looked, but instead she felt that the dress flattered her figure in the best way while displaying her extraordinary wealth and privilege to anyone who would look.

Well, that last part was true enough…

Her dark hair had been combed over a massive form and powdered, so that it stood in an enormous gray tower above her head. She had extra curls pinned into her hair, and she had decorated the massive coiffure with large pastel bows, just to match her dress. She believed she was the height of fashion, and everyone at her ball that night had told her so.

She did not dress this way just to make them jealous – although of course she relished their envy. No, she had made certain to have such a gown because she knew Cutler Beckett would be coming, and she wanted to look impressive.

Emma Clark had been giving subtle hints that Victoria was no longer a barrier between Lord Beckett and Charlotta for quite some time now, but a few weeks ago she had finally come out and said that she had heard Victoria had been kidnapped by Capitaine Chevalle and, after being brutally tortured, was murdered. Thus, Beckett, although doubtlessly in mourning after the silly chit, was on the market for a wife again. And Charlotta had no intention of letting him get away this time.

She and Emma were in the midst of gossiping happily about the horrifying murder of Lady Victoria Beckett when the latter's husband arrived. At first nobody noticed him – he was a small figure at the top of the stairs dressed in rich, royal blue, with a blonde at his side dressed in silver. Nobody recognized the duo until the very stunned butler announced them to the enormous chamber: "Lord and Lady Beckett now entering the ballroom."

Emma, who had been in the midst of gruesomely describing Victoria's bloody death to a group of horrified listeners, froze mid-sentence, eyes widening in disbelief as she looked up at the stairs. But there was no mistake: it was certainly Victoria clinging tightly to Lord Beckett's arm. Her blonde hair was not done in the massive up-do that was fashionable, but was piled up atop her head and hung in neat ringlets around her face, with a few dripping down the back of her silver gown. Even more astonishing was her rounded, obviously pregnant belly – the reason she was clinging so tightly to her husband, and the reason he was staring at her with such concern, guiding her with incredible delicacy down the stairs.

It was amazing how dead silence suddenly settled over the entire ballroom. Never had any entrance made such an impression as theirs just had. Everyone in the aristocracy had quite believed Emma's story about Victoria's murder – and to see her standing there, looking quite healthy and carrying a child no less, was beyond shocking. The silence hung in the air a few moments longer, and then suddenly the ballroom erupted with voices – whispers, too-loud speculative conversations, and cries of either dismay or delight. Many young women hurried forward to cluster around Victoria and give her their regards, tell her they were so glad she wasn't dead, and coo about her belly.

Charlotta and Emma simply stood there and stared.

The young women who had been listening had long since moved away in something of disgust and had hurried over to the Beckett couple to see what was going on. They were mostly alone, surrounded by older, more proper married couples whispering in disbelief about what they were seeing. The Becketts were so crowded by people that they almost could not be seen any longer.

Charlotta turned on Emma with an accusing stare. "You said she was dead," she spat furiously.

Emma drew herself up in an insulted stance. "I heard she was," she sniffed, although this was most likely a lie – Emma loved to exaggerate, and to humiliate. "It's not my fault that someone took advantage of my naïve nature and lied."

Charlotta wanted to hit the girl, but knew she couldn't. "Don't expect to be invited here again," she spat – a threat she had made many times before to Emma when it turned out that some tidbit she'd shared was false – and then turned and stomped off in the direction of the newest guests.

She had to shove her way through the rather large crowd gathered around Victoria, but they made way when they realized it was their hostess pushing through. When she finally got to the center of the group, the Becketts had their backs to her and were speaking to the Webbs – Vincent and Varinia. Varinia was also pregnant, and since she was blissfully happy in her new marriage she had long ago forgiven Victoria for stealing Lord Beckett from her in their courting days. Both of them were chattering happily about babies' names and what sex they thought their babies to be while Beckett and Vincent stood by and rolled their eyes in a commiserating fashion at one another.

"I was actually thinking of naming her Helena -" Victoria was saying to Varinia.

"Except that it's a boy," Beckett interjected.

"Cutler thinks Alexander is the appropriate name for a boy," Victoria explained, more to humor Beckett than because she actually felt it relevant.

"It's a good strong name for a boy," Vincent said approvingly. "I was thinking Edward, myself. Or Peter."

"I like Charles," Varinia said lightly. "And Penelope for a girl."

"I hate that name," Vincent muttered.

"We also thought Serena might be a pretty name," Varinia said, a bit grudgingly. She was clearly quite set on Penelope.

"Serena's a lovely name," Victoria said approvingly. "I also thought Eleanor would be a good name for her."

"Except that it's a _boy_," Beckett said insistently.

Victoria sighed. "Is Lord Webb this insufferable?" she asked, touching Beckett's hand in a tender gesture to indicate that he was not, in fact, insufferable.

"Oh, yes," Varinia said sympathetically. "Worse, in fact."

"I'm not!" Vincent said in false affront. "Do you believe these ladies, Beckett?" he said to Cutler.

"I'm afraid in dealing with them we must be generous," Beckett sighed. "The delicate feminine constitution is often thrown off-balance when they're with child."

"Is that an _insult?_" Victoria exclaimed. "I'll have _you_ know that -!"

"Ah-_HEM._" Charlotta coughed loudly in order to get their attention.

Beckett glanced over his shoulder and eyed Charlotta with something akin to disgust. "Our hostess craves our attention, my dear," he said to Victoria. He glanced at Webb with a small smile. "We'll talk later. Thank you for the amusing conversation."

"Don't let his pigheadedness trouble you and the baby," Victoria said to Varinia – and then she turned around.

Charlotta inhaled sharply. For although Victoria looked very much the same – if healthier, happier, and perhaps a little bitter – there was a long scar running from her eyebrow to the base of her nose. It spliced a bright white line across the once-unblemished face, an ugly trophy from her pirate attack.

For a moment, Charlotta was horrified; then, suddenly, she felt elated. It was unfathomable that Beckett could possibly love a woman so disfigured. "So it's true then," she said with mock gravity, taking Victoria's hands in an insincere gesture of sympathy. "You really _were_ attacked by pirates."

Victoria's expression was momentarily full of venomous hatred; then it went curiously blank. "I was," she said in a soft monotone. "It was… a terrifying experience." She pulled her hands back from Charlotta's and forced a smile. "I've been spending the past months recovering," she explained. "I'm sorry I haven't been present, but I'm sure you can see I've had many other things to occupy my time." She laid a hand on her swollen belly with considerable satisfaction.

"Ah, yes," Charlotta said, glancing downwards with a slight twitch of dislike. "Congratulations."

Victoria smiled serenely. "Why, thank you, Miss Harris," she said. She laid a mock-comforting hand on Charlotta's arm. "I'm sure you'll be just as happy someday."

Charlotta jerked back with an angry glare. She turned away from Victoria to look penetratingly at Beckett. "My lord," she said with a deep curtsy. "You must be very happy."

Beckett smiled. "Couldn't be happier," he said, and his sincerity was plain.

Charlotta felt her last hopes starting to shred. "But of course you must be suffering from the mark left on Victoria's face," she ventured a little desperately.

Beckett turned slightly to study Victoria, and his face flooded with such overwhelming affection that Charlotta finally recognized her battle was lost. "Not at all," he said softly. "I think it makes her look very noble – distinguished. Unique." He brushed gentle fingers against the scar before letting his hand drop. He turned back to Charlotta with a pleasant smile. "So what's the occasion for this charming ball, Miss Harris?" he inquired. "Dare I assume you've been proposed to?"

Her eyes dropped, her expression crushed. "No," she murmured gloomily. "No, not at all. Just… an entertaining social gathering, I suppose."

"I'm sure you'll have a proposal soon," Victoria said sweetly. "Or, at the very least, a suitor."

Charlotta winced at Victoria's tone. She wished she could think of a nasty retort, but she had nothing to say. Instead, she mumbled some polite response and then turned and hurried away across the ballroom in humiliation.

* * *

Beckett took Victoria's arm and guided her to a chair at the edge of the ballroom as Charlotta rushed away. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so disappointed to see you," he laughed. "Or so happy to see that scar."

"Miserable little trollop, trying to steal my husband," Victoria grumbled as she dropped into the chair. "Dear lord, this little girl is getting heavy…"

Beckett laid concerned fingers on her shoulder. "How are you feeling? Do you need to return home?"

Victoria waved him off. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, smiling slightly. "I'm fine. I just tire rather easily, what with the extra little body."

"I suppose, then, that I can't expect you to dance with me tonight."

She smiled up at him. "Not tonight, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Perhaps after the baby is born – but likely not before."

Beckett grinned boyishly. "One more reason to avoid attending all these irritating social occasions," he said merrily. He started to say something else, but another voice very abruptly interrupted him.

"Allow me to offer you my congratulations, Lady Beckett."

Both Beckett and Victoria looked up at the speaker with considerable dislike. "Duke Lawless," Victoria said coldly. "What a… _pleasant_ surprise. I didn't realize you'd been invited."

"I imagine if you had, you wouldn't have come," he said with a sly grin. He was a tall man with rugged, masculine good looks and warm, heart-melting brown eyes. He wore a powdered wig like the rest of his fashionable company, but at its edges some locks of his jet-black hair could be seen. He was dressed in a rich, chocolate brown suit decorated with gold.

If she hadn't known of his generally cruel nature, Victoria might have swooned at the sight of him. But Victoria had known terrible secrets about Drake Lawless for a long, long time – since she was fourteen, in fact – and everything she had learned about him since made him thoroughly repulsive to her. "I suppose any reputable guest list can't afford to exclude you," she said sourly.

"You would know," Lawless replied, raising his wine glass slightly to Beckett. "I've been invited to all _your_ social functions, and I _know_ neither of you like me."

Beckett's blue eyes were pure ice as he glared at Lawless. "I trust you have a good reason for coming to inconvenience my wife?" he said through clenched teeth.

Lawless pretended to be affronted. "Why, Lord Beckett, I merely wished to offer you both my sincerest congratulations," he said. He grinned nastily. "Such an obvious display of your marital bliss is certainly to be applauded."

"A pity that there is no such marital bliss in your future," Victoria drawled, arching an eyebrow at him. "Tell me, Drake, how is dear Catherine… and how is her child?"

The smile tightened at the edges – the only indication of his distaste for the subject. "You would know, wouldn't you?" he said evenly. "Since she lived with you for a time. Though I hear she gave you the slip and ran off. Going after her lover, was she? I should have known better than to offer my generosity to a coming-woman like her."

Victoria would have leapt to her feet at that if it weren't for the baby heavy in her womb. "You bastard," she hissed, her eyes narrowing to angry slits.

Beckett's hand on her shoulder pressed down more firmly to quiet her. "I trust you received the invitation to Rosemary Wellington's wedding?" he asked lightly. "Such a happy occasion, that. Presbery will make an honest woman of her. I'm sure you're very pleased."

Lawless finally lost composure, eyes going cold. "No matter who she marries or beds, Rosemary will always belong to me," he snarled. "Whatever she pretends, she won't stay with that chit for long."

Victoria was amazed at her husband's ability to find the weak points even in the armor of men like Lawless. Drake had been Rosemary's first man – not by Rosemary's choice, either – and ever since then he had held her chains. He was right, to a point; no matter who Rosemary chased, no matter who had shared her bed, she had always had to come back to him. Victoria had never understood it, but she had had no power to free Rose from Lawless. But from everything she'd seen and heard, William Presbery had done just that – freed her from her apparent need for the man who had made her into the Lady Whore. And Victoria was not about to let Lawless reclaim Rose's mind.

Apparently, neither was Beckett. "I suppose you won't attend," he said coolly. "It would be in rather poor taste for you to do so, you know. Actions might have to be taken."

Lawless glared sullenly at Beckett. "Actions?"

Beckett stared calmly back. "Actions. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate for _you_ of all people."

Lawless tried to stare Beckett down, but finally he looked away. "I have better things to do than watch Rose ruin herself," he spat. "But I'm sure you'll both thoroughly enjoy watching Presbery cage her."

"That's rich, coming from _you_," Victoria said hotly, but stopped when the pressure on her shoulder increased again.

"I hardly think you should be concerned for Rosemary's future, Duke," Beckett said. "I'd worry more about your own. You have a good deal of debts to pay off, you know – many of them owed to the Company as well as the Crown. I'd suggest finding a rich wife while you still can."

Lawless looked unnerved. "Nobody knows of those… er… _debts_," he said, sounding very uncertain. "The ladies will still follow me like begging puppies."

"It won't be long before the debts go public, Lawless," Beckett warned. "And then no one will want you, no matter how charming you try to be."

Lawless looked around the large ballroom a little desperately. Beckett smirked to himself and added helpfully, "If you're looking for an available heiress, I'd try our hostess for the night. She has no suitors and quite a fortune to inherit from her parents. Harris family friendship certainly wouldn't hurt your reputation, either."

Lawless's expression suddenly cleared, and he smiled arrogantly again. "Well then, I'm sure you needn't worry about those debts," he said, turning and starting off towards Charlotta. He called over his shoulder, "Give the Lady Whore my regards, Lady Beckett."

Victoria watched him go with a hateful stare; then, as she watched him speaking to Charlotta, who was practically swooning off her feet, she said, "That was rather cruel of you."

Beckett glanced at her in surprise. "What was?" he asked with a slight frown.

"Sending Lawless after Charlotta," Victoria said. "I don't think even she deserves that."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll be perfect for one another," Beckett said with a careless shrug.

"Lawless isn't perfect for anyone," Victoria said heatedly. "The only thing he deserves is an early grave."

Beckett pressed a comforting hand to her shoulder. "Soon, love," he promised quietly. "Very, very soon…"

Victoria was about to ask him what that meant when a group of giggling young women hurried up to her. "We want to hear about the pirate kidnapping," their leader, a bold brunette, announced.

Victoria arched a brow. "Do you, now?" she said. "What if I don't particularly feel like talking about it?"

"Oh, please!" a different girl, short and blonde, begged. "Everyone was claiming you were dead before, and we're all so anxious to hear what really happened. It'd be better to hear it from you than from some other busybody… don't you think?"

Victoria couldn't argue with that; and anyway she loved being the center of attention after such a long absence from the company of anyone but those living in the Beckett household. "All right," she said, sounding much more grudging than she felt. "Gather round, ladies; you'll forgive me if I don't stand. The baby, you understand…"

Beckett smiled to himself as more women rushed to join the circle. A few curious men even joined the group, anxious to hear what Victoria would say. Beckett quietly slipped off, leaving Victoria to her own devices. She would be fine on her own for the time being. At the moment, he had a little business to take care of.


	11. At the Wind and Sail

**A/N: Look! I finally posted the chapter! ZOMG! I'm sorry that work on this has been so insanely slow... I've had writer's block something terrible, plus college started and life got insane... ahem. Yes. Anyways. I'll try to be more regular about updating this. I think we're about halfway through the story at this point, but of course that may change as I write. :D I will do my utmost to have another chapter for you next Friday. Sorry for the delay!**

CHAPTER 11

In order to accommodate planning for their onslaught against the _Redemption_, Winslow booted out the patrons staying in the rooms around Ancelote's and gave those rooms to Mercer, Cat, and Savage. There were a few extra surrounding rooms for the more important Company officers, plus one for Winslow so he could be nearby in case of emergency. They weren't luxurious, but they were better than staying on the ship.

Catherine would have liked to go exploring around Bombay, but Mercer wouldn't hear of her leaving the inn unescorted. Generally Cat felt this was nonsense and protested vehemently on her own behalf, but Mercer would not be moved. Winslow was sympathetic, and often offered to chaperone her through the city, but Mercer usually didn't allow it.

"Don't you trust Winslow?" Cat demanded angrily of Mercer one morning after a long and profuse fit of begging.

"I don't trust anyone except myself," Mercer replied darkly. "And you, of course."

"But Winslow's loyal to the Company!" Cat protested. "Surely he wouldn't -!"

"Men do a lot of peculiar things out of greed, Cat," he said wearily. "And this position, though it certainly pays well, doesn't afford for the wealth and luxury that Winslow might have hoped for in London. I imagine he'd do just about anything to get back…"

"He seems to like it here well enough," Cat said sullenly.

"_Seems_," Mercer said. He glanced up at her with a concerned look. "Things are not always what the appear. Remember that."

Thus Cat was stuck inside the _Wind and Sail_ most of the time, much though it irritated her. She spent most of her free time visiting the recuperating Jayant and telling him stories of her past life, even though he couldn't understand a word of it. He seemed to like the sound of her voice, and nodded and smiled as she talked to him. Sometimes he would talk to her in Hindi, the deep, scratchy timbre of his voice rising and falling as he told her some tale – of his life, perhaps, or of India's history.

Whatever he might have been saying, Cat counted him as a friend despite the language barrier that divided them. She also became friendly with the regulars who visited the tavern at the _Wind and Sail_ on an almost daily basis. The sailors were amused by her, the bar wenches loved talking to her, and the Indians appreciated her genuine interest in them as people rather than as lower beings undeserving of her exalted attention. That she was boundlessly good and frighteningly innocent was quite obvious to all who met her – which only worried Mercer all the more.

Fortunately Cat had been smart enough to always introduce herself as Seraphina Welborne rather than by her true name, and so that secret, at least, remained safe. The guests at the _Wind and Sail_ had taken to calling her Seraph, and most would have been sad to see her go.

There were advantages to Cat's enthusiasm and easily given friendship; plenty of people were willing to pass on information to her, and, better still, merchants were ready to offer her lowered rates for their wares. This came in handy whenever Mercer needed something for his planning process, and so he'd begun to send both her and Ancelote to the market daily. The combination of the two women had an interesting affect on sellers – Cat was there to charm and smile and generally be a beacon of warm friendliness, and Ancelote was there to threaten of the consequences should Cat not be given what she asked for, and at a decent price.

Cat and Ancelote were out on just such a trip that day, Cat sweating like mad in the midst of Bombay's rolling heat. Mercer still insisted that she wear a man's clothes even though it was well known by that point that she was a woman, and English clothing was certainly not made for Bombay's sweltering temperature. Neither was Catherine's porcelain pale skin made for Bombay's burning sun. Fortunately, she'd already grown tan aboard the _Sea Siren_, but she was growing nearly as dark as some of the lighter-skinned Indians, and that troubled her.

"What the people will say when I get back to London," she sighed to Ancelote, who was only half-listening. Ancelote didn't dislike Cat, but she didn't particularly like her, either – all she'd seen of the younger woman had made her believe she was silly and a bit stupid, and certainly not meant for a life like the one Ancelote led. "Oh, Victoria will be _horrified_ at how much sun I've had – it'll take at least a year to return to the proper color," Cat groaned.

"That's assuming you return from this little adventure," Ancelote said darkly, eyes roving over the crowd with careful vigilance.

"Well, yes," Cat conceded, more good-naturedly than Ancelote had expected. Ancelote had thought tears, or wide-eyed horror might follow the pronouncement. "But I trust Mercer and Savage and you to keep us safe. Oh, did you know Jayant wants to come with us?"

Ancelote glanced sharply at her companion. "What?" she said in surprise.

"I know, I was rather shocked myself," Cat said, nodding in agreement. "But apparently he told Winslow as much just this morning. I'm delighted, myself."

"I suppose he could be useful," Ancelote said with a frown. "But he might slow us down."

"Oh, I don't think so," Cat said quickly, shaking her head. "He's been healing quite nicely, really, and even for his age he's quite spry. I have faith in him. Although we'll have to keep him away from Savage."

"Why?" Ancelote asked curiously.

Cat turned to her with an incredulous expression. "Did you miss the ruckus the day we arrived?" she asked in disbelief. "Savage is the one who shot Jayant. I insisted that Dav – beg your pardon, Mercer – find help for him, so we brought him to Winslow."

"I didn't realize," Ancelote said shortly. She turned and glanced over her shoulder – and saw at once that they were being followed through the market. Or, at least, _she_ was. She decided to say nothing about to it to Cat, lest she upset the girl unnecessarily.

"He's really a very nice man," Cat said, pausing briefly by a jeweler's stall and admiring a necklace before moving forward again.

"Savage?" Ancelote asked scornfully.

"No!" Cat exclaimed, with such vehemence and horror that Ancelote had to laugh. "No, Savage is a bloody bastard, and I hope he – " Here she paused, as though uncertain about what she hoped.

"Dies?" Ancelote suggested helpfully.

"Suffers something nasty, at any rate," Cat admitted. She was hesitant to wish death upon anyone, even someone she disliked as much as Savage. "I meant that Jayant is very nice. I'm fond of him."

"How can you be?" Ancelote asked in disbelief. "You don't even know what he's saying to you!"

"You can tell by the tone of voice when someone is being unkind, even if they're speaking a foreign tongue," Cat said with conviction.

"If they're unguarded or unaware that you don't speak the same language," Ancelote said. "But if they know you don't -!"

She was silenced when someone laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "Miss Bussiere?" a distinctly English voice said.

Ancelote turned, her expression cool and calm, but her body tensed and prepared to reach for the nearest weapon. "Yes?" she said coldly.

The man before her was tall, broad, and very tanned, and dressed much like a sailor. A cutlass swung at his side, an ominous threat to anyone looking in his direction. Ancelote glanced downwards as he lifted a hand for her to see.

There was a tattoo of a guinea there, outlined perfectly in ink.

Cat peered out from behind Ancelote, studying the tattoo with an inquisitive gaze. Fortunately, she remained silent, allowing Ancelote to be the speaking part of their duo.

Ancelote glanced up at the weathered face of the man before her. "Burton sent you, then," she said, her posture relaxing as she gave a short nod.

The pirate grinned. "He did," he said. "He's back in town, and glad to hear that you're here, too. He'd like to make arrangements for the… information exchange."

Ancelote inclined her head briefly. "Of course," she said in brusque, professional tones. "I am sure he will want the information as soon as possible?"

The pirate nodded. "Of course."

Ancelote looked thoughtful. "Let us say that I meet you at the _Wind and Sail_ around ten o'clock tonight," she said. "Does this arrangement sound suitable?"

"Perfect," the pirate said with a grin. The sun glinted off a gold tooth as his lips pulled back over it. "He will meet you with a small band of his men. Is there a private room in which to make arrangements?"

"Of course," Ancelote said. "I will be certain to have Winslow Robertson, the proprietor, reserve the room for us. He will direct Burton to it when he arrives."

The pirate gave another curt nod. "Then all's settled," he said. "We'll be there at ten o'clock sharp."

"Good," Ancelote said, turning on her heel and motioning for Catherine to follow. Catherine did so, forcing herself not to glance over her shoulder as the pirate was swallowed up by the crowd. "Does that mean the attack will be tonight?" she whispered quietly to Ancelote.

Ancelote didn't bother nodding. "Yes," she said flatly. "Tonight."

* * *

Mercer was in his room at the inn, enjoying a well-deserved nap, when Cat burst in, words tumbling out of her mouth faster than she should technically have been able to say them.

"TyrisishereAncelote'smadethearrangementesWAKEUPyouhavetostarttheplannningWAKEKUP!" she exclaimed, shaking him violently.

"I'm awake," Mercer grumbled, in a completely sleep-free voice. "Slow down and don't shout at me this time."

"Tyris and his crew are here!" Cat said excitedly, though slower. "And Ancelote's made all the arrangements – he and some of his men are coming her tonight for the information about the Hand! So you have to start planning right away!"

"Buggery," Mercer growled, leaping out of bed and storming past Catherine towards the door of his room.

"Buggery?" Catherine repeated in disbelief. "That's all you can at a time like this?!"

"Catie," Mercer said in exasperation, "It's just another onslaught against pirates. I've done it dozens of times before. It's really not very exciting any more."

"But we'll be going to find the Hand!" Cat squealed. "We'll be going on an adventure!"

Mercer sighed, but didn't bother to correct her. "Well, you can start packing for the… er… adventure, then," he advised. "We'll be leaving before sunup tomorrow, at the latest."

Catherine looked surprised. "You mean we might leave _tonight_?"

"If we've got the time, yes," Mercer said with a short nod. "And if we're not too exhausted after the fight. Otherwise we're leaving before dawn. An early start is probably best." He paused in the door and cast her a severe glance. "And please, try to contain yourself, will you?" he asked, a little imploring. "Someone will know that important things are happening if you keep squealing and giggling like a little school girl."

Cat hung her head abashedly. "Sorry, David," she murmured, chewing her lip.

Mercer sighed again. "I didn't say you had to look _depressed_," he said, relenting a little. "Just… don't be _too_ happy. All right?"

She brightened. "Yes, sir," she said, saluting crisply.

Mercer snorted and hurried out of the room, his mind already turning to the attack that was to happen that evening.

* * *

As Cat had no expertise in battle or in pirates, she was not included in the planning process. In fact, when she'd slipped in to see how they were faring, Savage had very firmly escorted her out. "Can't have you distracting our fearless leader, can we?" he'd sneered as he'd closed the door in her face.

It rankled a bit that Mercer hadn't done anything about Savage's rudeness, but Catherine knew he had a lot on his mind. She would have to settle for being a secondary concern today.

That being the case, Cat had the remainder of the day to herself – an unguarded day. If it had been earlier in their visit Catherine would have taken the opportunity to slip out into the markets by herself to shop and to mingle with the people, but all the time she'd been spending with Mercer, Savage, and Ancelote had made her cautious. Although she wasn't nearly as careful as they were, she was more aware of the dangers that laid within a foreign city – and better able to recognize that she was not well-equipped to deal with those dangers. So although she would have greatly enjoyed the prospect of roaming the streets by herself, she instead went to visit Jayant.

Jayant was doing much better these days. His health amazed even Catherine, who had _almost_ been sure that he would survive the bullet wound. It was almost a miracle that he had survived the bleeding and the potential disease that could have overtaken him if the wound had not stayed clean. But to all appearances, Jayant was going to escape Savage's shot with only a scar and some shoulder pain every now and again – amazing when one considered that it might well have taken his life.

Jayant was well aware that he had come terrifyingly close to death, and he credited his survival entirely to Cat. So he was clearly quite happy to see her when she slipped into his room that afternoon. He smiled and said something to her in Hindi – a greeting, she presumed.

"Hello, Jayant," she said cheerfully, dropping onto the floor in front of his bed. "How are you doing today?" She didn't expect him to answer, and he didn't. He merely smiled at her. "It's a very good day today," she told him, smiling back. "We're finally going to catch those pirates I've been telling you about. They're a nasty lot, pirates – I don't like them one whit. I imagine they'll go straight to the gallows once we've rounded them up." She frowned a little. "I suppose it's sad that they have to die," she sighed, "But justice must be served." She reached up and patted Jayant on the knee. "If I had my way Savage would be hanged for shooting you," she said. "Or, at the very least, shot in his shoulder. See how well _he_ likes it."

"That sounds quite fair, Miss Welborne. I'll carry out the punishment, if you'd like."

Cat turned in surprise and saw Winslow Robertson standing the doorway. Winslow gave her a friendly smile. "If you wouldn't mind getting some of the beer in the cellar for me?" he requested politely. "Jayant's not had much to drink today and I imagine he's very thirsty."

"Oh, of course!" Cat said, leaping to her feet. She turned back to Jayant and promised, "I'll be right back." Then she hurried out of the room, vaulting down the stairs two at a time.

She walked swiftly across the main floor of the tavern, smiling and waving at a few of her favorite customers as she went, though she didn't pause to talk as she normally would have. She was in a hurry to get back to Jayant, as she usually tried to keep him company for at least one hour a day and she'd hardly been talking to him for two minutes.

If she had been more aware, she would have felt the gaze of the three newcomers watching her back as she flounced down the stairs to the cellar. But she was Catherine Whitlock; she was innocent to the bone and suspected no one.

"That her, then?" one of the three newcomers said to his companions.

"Must be," said the second. "Pretty little thing. Seraph, did 'e say?"

"Suits her," the third sniggered. "She's quite the little angel, from the rumors. Even rescued one of the natives."

"Bloody stupid, is what she is," said the first sourly. "Leapin' around and wavin' as if she hadn't a care in the world. Don't see what 'e wants 'er for."

"What's any man want a pretty little wench like that for?" the third said, in the same nasty tone. "Can't say I blame 'im. She can't be older'n eighteen."

"Don't matter," the first growled. "Women onboard a ship's bad bloody luck. Everybody knows that."

"We'll chop off 'er hair, say she's a boy and call it square," the third laughed.

"Didn't know you liked that sort of thing," the second said mildly. "Little boys and all that. That's a bit wrong, you know."

"That ain't what I meant, and you know it," the third snapped.

There was a pause. Then, as Cat reappeared from the cellar, the second said, "So what're we supposed to do with 'er, then?"

"They gets out of here at half past nine," the first revealed. "We gots to make sure they gets out before the attack. Otherwise there'll be hell to pay – so 'e says."

"Be difficult to raise hell when 'e's dead," the second remarked.

"But 'e ain't gonna die, is 'e?" the third said in confusion.

The first grinned. "That," he said, "Depends on the captain."

* * *

When Catherine returned, Winslow was speaking rapidly in Hindi to Jayant. Jayant was staring stonily at Winslow, eyes narrowed into disconcertingly angry slits. Winslow sounded angry, too – the words flowing out of his mouth were spoken with an unpleasant amount of force.

Catherine set down the mug of beer on the lone table in the room. "What's going on?" she asked concernedly. "You're not fighting, are you?"

Winslow looked back at her, startled. "Oh," he said, coloring noticeably. "Oh, Miss Welborne, I didn't realize…" He stood up and said in embarrassment, "I was just explaining to Jayant that you'll have to leave tomorrow. He's not very pleased." He paused; then, hesitantly, he said, "Really, I'm not very pleased either, myself. You've done such a lovely job with all the customers and… well…" He shrugged helplessly.

Cat smiled softly. "I'm sure you'll find someone far more interesting to entertain your customers, Winslow," she said kindly. "Did you tell him that he could come with us?"

Winslow shifted from foot to foot. "I thought it best to wait until that was approved by Mercer," he said apologetically. "I don't want anything… _untoward_ to happen if Jayant tries to join you when you leave."

"Oh," Cat said, images of Savage pointing his pistol at Jayant flashing through her head. "That seems quite reasonable."

Winslow hesitated; then, he crossed the room and took her hands in his, looking into her eyes intently. "Look, Miss Welborne – Seraph," he said earnestly. "I don't know what brought you and Mr. Mercer together, but you have to trust me when I say that he's not the sort for a wonderful girl like you. He meddles in dark places and with bad people, and you'll only get mixed in with that lot if you stay with him. You're so completely different from him, I can't imagine that's what you want – to always live life running Beckett's errands country to country, sailing around with Mercer and waiting for him to slay his next target."

Cat looked away, ugly visions of that future blossoming before her eyes. She knew what Mercer did for a living; she knew that most claimed he had no heart and no soul, that even he believed himself damned. She had looked into the face of every single dark layer of his soul, and she had emerged poorer, sadder, but stronger and more certain of herself and the morals in which she believed. In a peculiar way, she had chosen to follow Mercer because he needed protecting – from himself. And there was the child, buried before it could even be born; the fortune lost, the family disowned; blood had been spilled and tears had been shed, and all of it had created a link between them that was, she felt, impossible to destroy. "I can't leave him," she said finally, with conviction.

"You _can_," Winslow insisted. "You can let him go on this quest, let him destroy these pirates… and you can stay here. With me."

She looked back at him sharply; he was looking hopefully at her. "I'm… sorry?" she said in shock, incredulous.

"Stay here, Seraph. With me," Winslow pleaded. "I've got nobody here – the British never stay, they all go home to London, and nobody else could every be as warm and friendly with all my guests as you are. It'd suit you, speaking with the guests. You could shop in the markets every day. It's a better life than what Mercer offers you."

Cat stared at him blankly for a moment; then, she gently extricated her hands from his. "Mercer never wanted this life for me," she said quietly. "But here we are; I've come this far with him, and I'll not turn back now. But thank you for your generous proposal – I am honored that my company has meant so much to you. Truly." She smiled comfortingly at him and reached across the space between them to squeeze his hand. "I suppose I'd best check on David," she said, turning away quickly. "Thank you for speaking to Jayant. I'll let you know what we decide about bringing him."

She hurried out the door and fled to the end of the hall, throwing the door to Mercer's room open and rushing inside, slamming the door closed again.

The slam reverberated in Jayant's room. Within, Winslow grimaced at the sound, hands clenching into fists. "Damn!" he swore, kicking the table and watching as the mug atop it crashed to the floor and shattered.

Jayant ventured to say something in Hindi, his voice reproachful. Angrily, Winslow spat a Hindi curse back, grabbed a shattered bit of mug, hurled it at the old man, and stormed from the room, an unpleasant glower on his face.


	12. So We're Dead

**A/N: I apologize for the enormously looooooooooooong period of time it has taken me to update this. I've hit a bit of a dry spell, Pirates-wise, but no worries - the fic will go on. I'm a bit dissatisfied with the two large fics right now, so once this version is complete I will probably go back and edit both of them to fill in gaps I've noticed and that sort of thing. But in the meantime, here is Chapter 12! This chapter references the events in _Vivian's Tower_, so I highly recommend reading that before this chapter if you haven't already. Hope you enjoy! Thank you for your patience!**

CHAPTER 12

A dream had been haunting Mercer for several weeks now. In reality it was only part dream, the rest a bleak memory he had long tried to suppress. It preyed on his mind when he was alone, as he was now – resting. Planning. Waiting.

_I know not where you are, Mercer Fae-Thief, but you will pay for your crimes._

He was not one to believe the threats of his enemies. Mercer had had many foes in his day and few of them had survived long enough to carry out their warnings of vengeance. He was a formidable fighter, and for the most part, he had hardened himself to his victims – to the entire world. But there were some foes that could not be beaten by any mortal hand – and Vivian, Lady of the Lake, was one of them.

_You come into my city, you betray my trust, you release my enemy…_

By sheer luck Mercer had survived Beckett's quest to bring back the staff of Merlin. It may have been trickery and wit that won him entrance to the Tower of Merlin, but he could not credit anything but luck to his escape. That the faerie horse had bonded with him, that the horse had been there in the first place, that Merlin had been so willing to help…

_How dare you take the staff from us – and the sheath, the sheath that I created for a king far greater than you shall ever be!_

He had gotten away with his life, and with Merlin's staff and Excalibur's sheath, but he hadn't escaped entirely unscathed. There had been consequences for his thievery.

_I curse you…_

Most of the time it wasn't hard for Mercer to forget about the curse. It had been impossible in the days directly after the journey was complete; a part of it had come to pass almost immediately after his return to London. Wasn't it right after he came home that Perthina –

He cut the thought off sharply. He did not think about her. He did not picture her. He did not even think her name.

_She who you love most dearly now will perish by your hand… _

The whole of the curse did not even involve… _her_. She was only a part in a vengeance Mercer could not imagine or comprehend. The other part – the simpler part – had not concerned him for years. It threatened love, then betrayal, then destruction, but what use was such a threat to a man who had no heart to give?

_I will send for you a Fae siren whose innocence and beauty you will not be able to resist…_

Mercer didn't like women much. He never had much use for them except where they could be manipulated or used to further some other cause. But then, he hated most men too, and saw little purpose in them except for the aforementioned reasons. Only one man had proved himself a master worthy of service, and that was Beckett. And Beckett did not allow for dalliances with women – or men, for that matter.

So the threat of some faerie girl floating into his life and capturing his attention was ridiculous. Or had been, until Cat.

_Innocence and beauty…_

It would have been easy to avoid her if Victoria had not been about. It would have been easy to hide what he felt, too, if Victoria had not been so keen an observer – if he had not been forced to spend so much time around her. And it would have been easy not to like Cat – if she hadn't been so damn earnest. If she hadn't reminded him so much of –

He stopped the thought again. The incident did not bear considering.

_You will watch as you destroy her, too_.

It was that last little bit that was bothering Mercer most. _You will destroy her too._ When the memory of the curse had come back to him – when Cat had disappeared from his life – he had thought it good to have her gone. He had thought the curse complete when she was betrothed to Lawless. No greater punishment could be his, he thought, than to watch her wed so miserable a man.

But here she was, in Bombay, with him. And the dreams had come, and they were getting more frequent.

_Innocence and beauty… destroy… siren… perish by your hand…_

Mercer sat in his room in total darkness, the shades drawn, the candle out. He was not sleeping, but he wanted Savage and Ancelote to think he was. They had agreed to break for a while, to rest from the intensity of planning. It was only to be an hour, but it was long enough for Mercer to think. And, contrary to what some might believe, he did a lot of thinking.

He was thinking, currently, that he needed some way to send Cat home, or at least find her some safety. The journey had been dangerous from the start, but it was about to become even worse– desert travel, firstly, was likely to kill them, and if not that then the Hand and its guardians might do the job instead. So great a treasure was certain to be well protected, and someone would probably die. Cat could not – _would not_ – be the party member lost. Mercer was determined that it would be not be so.

The ship on which they had traveled would leave and return to England before the night was out; Cat could go back on it. Mercer could leave strict instruction that she was not to be touched, or worked, or –

No, that would be too suspicious. Without his guardianship, the sailors would treat her ill, or would reveal her sex, and terrible things would doubtless happen. She needed him to be with her, or someone else he trusted – and on this journey at least he trusted no one else.

But could he take her across the desert? Could he really keep her safe and capture the Hand for Beckett? Could he, with any certainty, do what needed to be done without feeling the guilt that came with having an innocent like Cat nearby?

_You will watch as you destroy her, too._

He would evade the curse. He had to evade the curse. But doing so…

Well, he couldn't begin to fathom how he could.

It was in the midst of these dark thoughts that the door his to room burst open. Mercer glanced up as it slammed closed again, leaving him once more in darkness.

"David?" Cat's voice shook slightly. Mercer could just barely make out her outline in the dark.

"I'm here," he said, standing and heading for the candle. "I thought you were spending time with Jayant."

"I thought you were planning," she replied. "Why is it so dark?"

"I was thinking."

She sighed. "Things are so bad?"

"Getting there." He lit the candle, bringing a small spark of light to the room. "There," he said, turning back to her. "Better now?"

"Much." Cat stood by the door, hugging herself uncertainly.

He arched a brow. The girl looked shaken; her face was pale and she was staring into the shadowy corners of the room as though something was waiting there to attack her. "Being chased down by a monster, are you?" he asked dryly.

She shook her head mutely, turning towards him with a strangely distant look. "No, no monsters," she murmured distractedly. "You'll find no such creatures here."

"On the contrary, you'll find plenty of them – myself included," he half-joked. She didn't laugh. He sighed and growled, "It was meant to be amusing, Catie. Can't you smile for me?"

She didn't. "Winslow just proposed to me," she blurted out, then winced as soon as the words had left her mouth.

Mercer's eyes narrowed abruptly. "_What_?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know where it came from," she said, looking genuinely bewildered. "I can't begin to fathom what he was thinking -!"

"I can," Mercer growled, fists clenching at his sides.

Cat ignored him. "I suppose having me about has been good for business, and I suppose it _is_ lonely here when you're all by yourself like he is," she said thoughtfully. "But he knows I'm with you. He even said so."

"Clearly that didn't stop him," Mercer said bitterly. "I think Winslow and I will need to have a bit of a talk."

Cat still didn't appear to be listening. She moved across the floor to sit at the small table in the barren corner of the room. "He said he could give me a better life," she said dejectedly. "That staying with him would be safer than moving on with you."

Mercer froze, looking at her with a suddenly troubled gaze. _You will watch as you destroy her…_ "Said that, did he?" he murmured. "He's right, of course."

"I know," Cat said, shrugging slightly. "But it's not important. Not to me, at least."

Mercer muttered, "It should be."

Cat continued not to look at him. "He just doesn't understand," she said angrily. "He doesn't know everything we've been through…"

"It wouldn't change anything – he'd still be right," Mercer said.

Finally she did look at him, worry in her eyes. "It doesn't matter," she insisted.

"Doesn't it?" Mercer snapped. "Look at you! You're trapped in some God-forsaken heathen country with no home to return to and no life or riches to call your own. You can't even go by your own name for fear of being called out by your host. And every day you risk death or worse!" He turned his back to her, unable to stare at her any longer. "Maybe you _should_ stay here," he said slowly. "Stay with Winslow. He could take care of you, give you a decent life."

"What?!" Cat exclaimed, a horrified expression crossing her face. "No! I won't!"

"You'd be stupid not to," Mercer said flatly. "He's a good man."

"So are you."

Mercer cast her an incredulous glance over his shoulder. "I assure you, Cat, I'm not," he said. "I'm the closest you'll ever come to seeing the Devil."

"You rescued Jayant," Cat said stubbornly.

"I wouldn't have if you hadn't wanted it."

"You're taking care of me," Cat said, sounding desperate.

"Not out of the goodness of my heart."

"Why else would you be doing this?" Cat demanded.

"Because I have no choice," Mercer snapped. "Because you came onboard the ship and I couldn't bring you back."

"What else was I to do?" Cat cried.

"You could have stayed in London," Mercer said. "Tori would have taken care of you."

"I didn't give up everything I could have inherited for Tori," Cat said heatedly. "I did it for you."

"You should have chosen someone worthier," Mercer said bitterly.

She hesitated, and silence hung between them. Then she leapt from her chair and ran across the room to embrace him. "I don't think you unworthy," she said.

"You don't know much about me," he said dejectedly.

"I know about Perthina," Cat said. "I know about all the things you do for Beckett. Tori's told me all that, and I'm still here."

"You're a damn fool, then."

Cat looked up at him, wounded. "I'm not stupid, Mercer."

He tried not to wince at her use of his surname. "Maybe not stupid, but certainly naive." He paused, disentangled himself from her, and turned away again. "When you stopped visiting," he said softly, "I thought it was over. And I was content with that. I knew it would end that way – that you would marry some wealthy man and have his children and I would continue working for Beckett as I always have. But you came back, and selfishly I kept you." He growled in frustration. "I was an idiot to bring you here."  
Cat drew back, hurt. "Do you wish I'd stayed in London and married Lawless?"

Mercer's hand clenched into a fist. "Not Lawless," he snarled. "Never Lawless." He sighed. "But someone else. Someone rich."

"You don't mean that," Cat whispered.

"I assure you, I do," Mercer said, facing her once more. "I have wished that ever since I learned what I did to you."

Cat blinked. "The baby?" she asked.

He nodded shortly.

She shook her head. "That wasn't – it wasn't _bad_," she protested. "If he had lived – !"

"It wouldn't have mattered," Mercer said wearily. "You would have been forced to leave him with some poor family in London's streets, and neither of us would ever have seen him again."

Cat trembled. "Do you want me to stay with Winslow?" she asked, lifting her chin defiantly. "Do you _really_ want me to accept him?"

There was a pause, a complete, dark silence that hung between them for what seemed like hours. Cat stood, hands clenched at her sides, praying for the answer she wished to hear. Mercer stood alone in the middle of the room, his face blank as stone. But behind the cold expression, he was thinking. He was seeing Cat, and he was remembering a time before her, and a fate she did not deserve…

Finally, he said, "Yes."

Cat gasped and swirled unsteadily on her feet, as though she might collapse. "No!" she cried.

"I can't take care of you properly," Mercer said darkly. "I can't protect you like Winslow can. I can't shield you from the dangers of this world. Hell, I _am_ the dangers of this world – every last one of them. Here you'd be safe and loved. You'd lead a good if relatively ordinary life. You'll never have that with me."

"Maybe I don't want that," Cat said furiously.

"You do," Mercer said. "I know you do."

She stood before him, trembling, face pale. Mercer wished for several long moments that he could harden himself to her as he did everyone else, but since the moment he'd met her that had proved an impossible task. Still, he stared her down, willing her to change her mind – willing her to stay.

"I'm not accepting him," she said at last. "I already said no."

"You can probably still change your mind," Mercer replied. "I don't think he'll hold any hard feelings against you if you do it soon."

"No," Cat said, setting her jaw.

Mercer stared at her, his expression hard and flat. "That's your folly then," he said. "But if Winslow's offering you a safe haven, I'm not taking you with me tomorrow."

"What?" Cat gasped.

Mercer looked away and didn't say anything. It was the only thing he could think to do – the only way he could be certain that she would be safe.

"You can't," Cat said, aghast. "David, you can't – !"

"I don't have a choice," Mercer growled.

"Of _course_ you do," Cat exclaimed. "You're the leader of this group! And you can't pretend I don't mean something to you – I know that's all a lie! Why would you leave me? What could make you think that would be wise? Why would – ?"

"_I don't want you to die!"_

The exclamation came so suddenly, so loudly, that Cat jumped back and Mercer succeeded in startling himself. He hadn't meant to say it, but some part of him had known he had to explain himself. Perhaps if she knew…

"It's been predicted," he said hoarsely. "If we stay together, Catie, you will be destroyed. And it will be my fault."

Cat started towards him again. "I don't believe that," she said quietly.

"_I_ do," Mercer said flatly, stepping back from her before she could touch him.

He stood several moments longer, arms crossed over his chest. Then, slowly, he said, "You should go downstairs, talk to Winslow. The others and I have a lot of planning to do."

Cat stared at him, blinking rapidly. "If that's what you want," she whispered.

It wasn't what he wanted, but he didn't have much choice. "It's what I want," he said.

He waited. Cat didn't leave at once, but stared at him a few moments longer. When he didn't speak, she ran past him and threw herself out the door, letting it slam behind her.

Mercer winced as the door banged closed, but inwardly felt a little relief.

_She is safe. And Vivian's vengeance will no longer be my concern._

_She will live. Even if I do not._

*

Fortunately, though the _Wind and Sail_ seemed to be doing a brisk trade, hardly anybody paid attention to Cat as she hurtled down the stairs and made for a dark, empty corner. Winslow also seemed to be absent, but Cat wasn't bothered. She assumed he'd gone out to the market to purchase some of the necessary supplies for the tavern. And at any rate, Winslow was the last person she wanted to see.

She sank gratefully into a chair in the furthest corner of the room and pulled her knees up to her chest. As Mercer had commanded, she still wore a suit, and for once she was grateful for the unfeminine clothing. It certainly allowed for more mobility, and mobility was what she needed now.

She hugged herself miserably and wished she hadn't been stupid enough to mention Winslow's proposal to Mercer. She probably wouldn't have said anything about it if she hadn't still been in shock. It had seemed so odd, so unreasonable, so unfathomably illogical.

But if _that_ had seemed ridiculous, Mercer's reaction to it was by far more so. Leave her here? After all they'd already gone through? After all he'd done for her, and she for him? How could he even think it acceptable?

_It's been predicted, _he had said. _If you stay with me you will be destroyed._

But who would say such a thing? And why would so logical a man as Mercer believe them?

It was too much. Cat hid her face in her knees and cried.

She stayed there for the better part of two hours, huddled in the corner, unseen and uncomforted. It was as if no one recognized her when she was sad – she was expected always to be a happy little sprite, smiling and laughing and sprinkling bits of her happiness amongst the customers. But the favor, it seemed, would not be returned to her when she felt depressed.

She finally felt a small tap on her shoulder. She looked up, hoping to see Mercer – but instead she found herself looking up into the face of a weather-beaten sailor. She sniffed and wiped her eyes hurriedly. "Hello, sir," she said politely.

"'Allo, miss," the sailor said, grinning toothily at her. "Are ye Seraph Welborne?"

Cat nodded.

"We been lookin' for yeh," the sailor said, holding out a hand to her. "Ancelote Bussiere needs yer help at the docks."

Cat took his hand and let him help her out of her seat. "Why at the docks?" she asked, frowning in perplexity. "Isn't she upstairs with Mercer and the others?"

"Nah; she left an hour ago to prepare," the man said. "She needs yeh to come with us."

Cat noticed then that there were several other men standing behind him, burly and rough in appearance. She also noticed that the first man had not let go of her arm yet – his large fingers were still wrapped firmly around her wrist. "How do you know Ancelote?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"We're contacts of hers," one of the other sailors explained. "She uses us to bring and receive messages. We're… errand boys."

Cat hesitated, uncertain. "I think I should perhaps wait until Mercer – "

"Mercer knows," they assured her, all three at once.

"He wants ye to help," the first sailor insisted. "It's an… er… amends. Yes. Amends."

Cat blinked. "For…?"

"Fer… not allowin' ye out so much, and the like," the sailor said. "Please, miss, time's wastin'."

He tugged hard on her arm, and she stumbled forward. Two of the men fell in behind her and pushed her towards the door, while another came to her opposite side. She was effectively surrounded – and she knew now, without question, that something was very wrong.

She turned to look over her shoulder, searching for a means of escape, and saw Savage descending the stairs, looking bleary-eyed and half-drunk. She tried to yank her arm from the grip of the first sailor, but he wouldn't let her go. "Savage!" she shouted over the hustle of the tavern. "SAVAGE! RALSTON SAVAGE!"

He blinked, paused on the stairs, and began to look around, but he didn't seem to see her.

"SAV-!" She started to scream again, but she was clubbed roughly on the head, and the world fell into darkness and silence.

*

Savage had been drinking in his spare hour – probably a good deal more than he should have, though he held his drink relatively well. He had continued drinking while Mercer and Ancelote plotted and planned the assault for the night, and had kept on drinking even when Mercer had threatened to break one of the bottles over his head.

He was, at the moment, looking for the privy. All that drink ran through him fast, and he was in need of good, long piss.

It was in this most inconvenient of times that he witnessed Cat being kidnapped.

It took him a moment, squinting as he was from the stairs, to even register what was happening. He heard Cat shout, and he had to look around a good deal before he spotted her; and by the time his eyes finally alighted on her, she was getting smacked over the head with the butt of a pistol and fainting flat between four very large men.

Savage stood. He stared. He gawped at the men a bit longer. Then, finally, he raised one finger, swirled unsteadily on his feet, and shouted, "Oi!"

But, he soon realized, they were already gone.

He turned, nearly smacking into another patron, and stumbled his way back up the stairs, bottle in hand. "Mercer!" he shouted as he fumbled through the hall. "Calling David Mercer!"

Mercer threw open his door and stepped out into the corridor, pistol in hand. "If you want to live, Ralston Savage, you will shut up _right now_," he growled, cocking the pistol and lifting it so that it was level with Savage's forehead.

"No need for that," Savage slurred. "There's some trouble down below."

Mercer's brows knitted into a dark frown. "What sort of trouble?" he asked.

"'S your lady," Savage said, grinning lopsidedly. "Jus' got kidnapped, methinks."

Mercer let the pistol drop. "_What?_"

Savage giggled. "Carried out by some big men," he said. "I shouted, but they were gone."

Mercer was glaring at him, but Savage hardly cared. This was some hardy drink they'd given him. "And you let them go?" Mercer exclaimed, infuriated.

"Well," Savage said, frowning. "Well… well…" He turned and started back down the hall.

"Where the hell are you going?" Mercer shouted after him.

"Hafta piss!" Savage yelled over his shoulder.

"Useless," Mercer snarled. "You are completely bloody useless! ANCELOTE!"

Savage noticed, about ten seconds after it happened, that Mercer and Ancelote had both run past him. He caught up to them at the edge of the corridor, where it opened into the stairs and circled down to the common room. "You stopped," he observed, surprised. "You not chasin' the lady?"

"We would," Ancelote said tightly, "Only we're in a bit of a fix."

"Fix?" Savage blinked. "What sorta fix?"

"A very _bad_fix," Ancelote said grimly.

"Just 'cause Cat got stolen?" Savage asked.

"No, there's worse things than that at hand," Ancelote said.

"I'm not certain that _worse_ is the proper term," Mercer interrupted, steel in his voice.

"Well, you wouldn't think so, would you?" Ancelote retorted. "On the list of things that worry you, death comes second to losing that stupid little girl."

"She's not stupid," Mercer snarled. "You're the one who nearly waltzed into a common room full of pirates without even noticing them!"

Savage's inebriated mind took several seconds to process what Mercer had said. But by the time his mouth managed to form the word, "What?!", the conversation had already moved on.

"At least I managed to remedy my mistake," Ancelote was saying, irked. "You just let the girl wander off by herself! Why weren't you watching her? You _know_ she can't be left alone in a place like this!"

"We had a bit of a falling out," Mercer muttered, glancing around the wall to the crowd in the tavern below, and shrinking back again.

"A falling out?" Ancelote repeated, surprised. "But –?"

"Bloody hell, Bussiere, the entire crew of the _Redemption_ is down there and all you can think to ask me is 'Wait, you and Cat are fighting?'" Mercer snapped. "Now is _not_ the time!"

"Did you say pirates?" Savage finally managed.

They both looked at him, as though surprised that he was still conscious enough to participate in the conversation. "Yes," Ancelote said.

"Where?" Savage asked, reaching for a knife – only to find it gone. Left in his room, most likely…

Ancelote glared at him in exasperation. "You see all those men down there?" she said, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him around to peer at the customers below.

He nodded slowly. "See 'em," he said.

Ancelote jerked him roughly back into the hall. "Almost all of them are from Burton's crew," she hissed. "And every last one of those is armed to the teeth."

Savage frowned. "But what're they doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

"They obviously discovered our plan," Mercer spat, "And are here to sabotage it, before we can sabotage them."

Savage considered this for a moment. "The Company's soldiers – "

"Are currently out at the docks loading the ship," Mercer said.

"_If_the ship hasn't been ransacked and burned," Ancelote put in. "I'm sure they've discovered where we docked. They surely would want to plunder and cripple us all at once, in case we escaped."

"Escaped?" Mercer repeated. "How the hell are we supposed to escape from an entire common room full of pirates?"

Savage reached up to stroke the rough stubbly beard growing on his chin. "Well," he said, raising a thoughtful finger towards the sky. "We could always sneak down in different clothes and hope they don't recognize us."

Ancelote stared at him, and then at Mercer, then back at Savage, and back to Mercer once more. "So we're dead," she said resignedly.

Mercer snarled in the back of his throat. "Yes," he agreed. "Very, very dead."


	13. A Clash of Wills and Cutlasses

CHAPTER 13

"We need a plan," Savage declared, staggering.

"Oh really?" Mercer hissed, still pressed back against the wall. The men below were looking all around them, bored with sitting. They were ready for the slaughter. Mercer wondered vaguely how many pieces he would get chopped into if he attempted to walk into the common room.

_Too many,_ his mind replied, and left it at that.

"Is there a back way out of this place?" Mercer whispered to Ancelote.

She frowned in response. "I don't believe so," she said. "Not one that I've ever used, at any rate."

"We could try the windows," Mercer suggested.

"From this floor?" Ancelote laughed. "That one at least would break his ankle." She nodded towards Savage, who was frowning in concentration as he tried to keep up with the conversation.

"So we leave him," Mercer snapped. "He's useless anyway."

"Not entirely," Ancelote protested. "His sailors listen to him – "

"His sailors are most likely dead," Mercer retorted, cutting her off. "If they're waiting here to kill us, I doubt they'll allow a ship full of East India Trading Company men to sail out of the harbor unharmed."

"Touché." Ancelote frowned and bit her lip. "Well, we could always try Savage's suggestion…"

"Disguising ourselves?" Mercer repeated incredulously. "As what? Barmaids?"

Ancelote grinned. "It might work."

Mercer grimaced. "I don't think I have the proper figure for a dress," he said, rubbing his chest subconsciously.

"Back stairs!" Savage blurted out.

They turned to look at him. "All right, Savage," Mercer growled, "You have thirty seconds. Talk."

"In thirty seconds? I don't know if I can. My mind, it's all wibbly…"

"Savage," Mercer said, gritting his teeth. "_Talk_."

Savage scratched his nose. "There's a set o' back stairs," he slurred. "Wen' down there wid a barmaid. Very pretty thing."

"We don't care about the barmaid," Ancelote said, cutting him off sharply. "The stairs?"

"You've no sense of fun," Savage said sullenly. "There's a sssecret door. Inna wall."

"What wall?" Mercer and Ancelote demanded, almost simultaneously.

Savage spun around, barely managing to catch the wall for balance. "Thattaway!" he yelled.

Ancelote jumped in surprise; Mercer groaned. "Shit," he cursed.

"They're up there!" he heard someone shout. "C'mon, lads! Let's get 'em!"

"_Shit_," Mercer swore again, and grabbed Ancelote's wrist. "Let's go," he ordered. "Or else we're dead."

"Wait for me!" Savage cried.

"I am," Mercer said, grabbing hold of Savage and shoving him in front. "In fact, you're leading."

"Do you think that's wise, sir?" Ancelote asked. "It seems to me that – "

There was a bang, and wood splintered next to Mercer's head. "Run!" Mercer shouted, and off they went.

Savage was a wobbling, weaving mess. The only reason he managed to stay on his feet – and managed to move with any sort of speed – was because Mercer and Ancelote were both right behind. And he knew, drunk though he was, that if he tripped and fell, they would leave him behind.

"You'd best find that wall," Mercer shouted at him. "And you'd best find it now!"

Gunfire was going off around them. Angry pirates were charging up the stairs, pouring into the hall. They carried cutlasses, rapiers – a few even had nets. There was an unhappy death awaiting them if they stayed too long in this place.

"Wait!" Savage exclaimed, stopping.

"No!" Ancelote screamed.

"Is tha' way!" Savage said, pointing towards the pirates.

"Blasted hell!" Mercer snarled, and shoved Ancelote and Savage in front of him, grabbing Savage's pistol in the process. Best to be armed with two weapons rather than trying to reload the one after its single shot. "Open that door and get us out!" he yelled. "I'm going to distract them if I can!"

"You're going to die, is what you're going to do!" Ancelote called, but Mercer wasn't listening. He aimed the first pistol and shot the nearest pirate, who fell with a heavy thud. His cutlass went skittering across the ground. Mercer dove for it and grabbed it, dodging right into the path of a stampeding pirate. He tripped his foe and ran him through, brutally kicking the man off the blade. He caught the next pirate – one of those carrying a net – with a blow to the head. He snatched up the net from the dead pirate's hands and hurled it, hard, at the oncoming collection. It was weighted at the corners, and a few of the weights hit some of the pirates in the face. It was enough of a distraction to stall them, and enough time for Mercer to dive through the now-open servants' door and slam it shut.

He didn't wait to see if the pirates had noticed his escape route. He hurtled down the servants' steps after Ancelote and Savage, who were tripping and cursing their way down. He could hear the pirates shouting above his head, but the door stayed closed. Apparently they hadn't seen him, or if they had, they hadn't yet noticed the door through which he had run.

He hit the ground floor and burst out into an empty alley behind the _Wind and Sail_. Only the alley wasn't empty as it should have been – there were some pirates there, weapons drawn. Ancelote was trying to fend them off, while Savage groped in confusion for his pistol.

"Oh, hell," Mercer grumbled, and took out Savage's pistol and fired.

He hit one of the pirates in the head. The pirate went down, blood starting to spill out of his forehead. Then Mercer dove into the fray, cutlass raised. He backed Ancelote as best he could, taking on an extremely burly pirate who could easily have crushed the small French woman.

The burly pirate was an inelegant fighter, but that didn't surprise Mercer much. The man hacked and hacked, a berserker, as Mercer dodged and defended and tried to avoid getting shot by the other pirates gathered around. He tried to count; he estimated there were maybe ten pirates present. Too many for them to take down.

So this was how his life was to end: in a back alley where no one would find him, slain by pirates, his sworn enemies. He wasn't surprised. He'd always assumed his life would end in a situation like this, even as a boy. He was a killer and a poor man, and their lives never ended safely at home in bed.

What he had not expected was the anger, and the remorse. It wasn't even about his death. It was about Cat, who had been kidnapped; she would be taken somewhere horrible and would live a brief, unhappy existence. Maybe she would be ransomed. Maybe they would just kill her. But no; they were pirates. They would do terrible things to her. They would throw her in the brig, and when they grew too lonely at sea –

He cut off the thought sharply. It did not bear considering. It did not help his focus.

Still, the image kept rising. And the one persistent thought, the thing that made him angriest: he wouldn't be able to save her.

He attacked the burly pirate fiercely, snarling. If he had to die, he was going to make it a fearsome death, one this pirate would not soon forget.

It was at that moment that the pirate's head exploded.

Mercer continued driving his sword towards the pirate, giving the dead man a good slash across the chest. It took a few seconds to register that he had done nothing to his opponent's head; it had seemingly exploded of its own accord. But that was impossible. Someone else was attacking Burton's crewmembers.

The other pirates were beginning to turn, but too late: in moments they too were dead, blood starting to sprout from their bodies like bright flowers in spring. Mercer let his arm drop, fleetingly confused. How had this happened? Who was killing these bastards?

And then he was looking into the smirking face of Captain Jack Sparrow.

* * *

The _Sea Siren _was afire. The flames devoured the ship as sailors screamed and hurled themselves from its decks. Smoke billowed upwards to the heavens, carrying the souls of the already dead with it.

Catherine watched in mute horror from the captain's quarters aboard the pirate ship _Redemption_. The light from the flames danced across her face, lighting her wide eyes, catching highlights in her hair. She felt small and frail and completely useless.

She bowed her head and clasped her hands in prayer. Her fingers were locked together so tightly that her knuckles turned white, but she didn't seem to notice. She began murmuring a fervent entreaty to God: _save them. Save David and Savage and Ancelote. Save them at least, if you will not spare the crew. Please, Lord. Please._

The door to the cabin creaked open, but Cat didn't turn. She continued praying, but added something new to her prayer: _God, grant me the chance to live. Grant me the strength to defend myself in the face of danger. Let me see David again. Please._

"Quite a bonfire," a familiar voice observed from the doorway.

At that Catherine stopped praying. She turned to stare at her visitor with shock. "You?" she gasped. "You did this?"

Winslow stepped through the door and came to stand beside her, looking out at the burning ship. "Beckett always has undervalued everyone but himself," he said. "He was foolish to think he could leave me in this post without a chance of promotion. Do you have any idea how long I've planned to return home to England, to buy myself a country manor with the money I've saved and live a life amongst the wealthy?"

"You've thrown that dream out the window," Cat observed. "You can never return to England now – not after what you've done to Beckett's men."

"Who will report it?" Winslow questioned. "There won't be any survivors from the _Sea Siren_, aside from you, and you won't be seeing Beckett any time soon. Even if you wished to, I doubt you'd be permitted – you're but a street girl, and Beckett spares no time for people of your class."

Cat was briefly thankful that Winslow had no idea who she really was. "My connections with Mercer might allow me an interview," she pointed out. "And given the chance, I fully intend to take advantage of those connections."

Winslow turned to her with a frown. "You won't be given the chance," he said firmly. "And you won't want it, eventually. Tyris Burton is going to take us far away from here. We'll sail with him as he travels around the world, help him steal some treasure and the like, and then when we arrive in England he will leave us at port, and we will start our lives over. Together."

Catherine felt the sudden and ridiculous urge to laugh. "If I remember rightly," she said, "And I am quite certain I do – I refused you at the _Wind and Sail_."

"That was when Mercer was still alive."

"So you killed him too, did you?" Cat's voice sounded remarkably calm – much calmer than she was feeling.

"At this moment, Mercer is in the midst of the pirates in Burton's crew," Winslow told her, smirking. "And when they are through with him, there won't be much left of him."

"And this is supposed to please me, is it?" Cat spat. She had never been so angry in her life. She had never felt such a swell of bitterness and loathing for anyone, not even Lawless. "I suppose you expect me to say, 'Oh, well then, that's done, let's marry and live happily ever after, shall we?' Is that how this scene played in your head?"

Winslow stared at her, disconcerted by her tone. "Well, I expected you to be upset – "

"Upset?" Now Cat really did laugh, a hysterical laugh. "Upset? Well, you were wrong. I am beyond upset. I am beyond angry. I – I – I don't even know what I am right now, but it's certainly not in your plan." She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a furious glare at Winslow. Somehow, despite how small she was, Winslow cowered back. "I have been through hell this past year," she hissed. "I have loved, and learned that love is apparently not reason enough for marriage; I have been betrothed to a horrible man and escaped that betrothal only after injury and the loss of a child; and then I have come here, and seen and learned horrible things about the man I love, and I have persisted anyway. And you think you can stroll in, _kill _him, and eventually win me over?" She paused and looked over Winslow's stunned face. "Idiot," she said disdainfully, and turned away.

"Seraph – " Winslow protested.

She ignored him, marching out onto the deck, where she immediately encountered several very tall and very large pirates. "You have a brig on this barnacle-encrusted chunk of wood, don't you?" she snapped at them. "Best take me to it."

The pirates exchanged amused glances. "We've been told to leave you wif 'im, miss," one of them said, nodding to Winslow. "Captain's orders."

"I honestly don't give a damn what your captain ordered," Cat growled. "I will not remain in Winslow's company for this journey – not for a single second. So you can either try to chase me after I jump over the edge of the ship, or you can throw me in the brig. Your choice."

The pirates stared at her, taken by surprise. "Well – " said the first one.

Before he could finish his sentence, Cat dove for the edge of the ship, prepared to leap over the edge. Unfortunately, Winslow was faster than the pirates, and leapt after her, grabbing her back onto the ship. "Don't you dare!" he snarled, dragging her back down.

She kicked ferociously. "Let me go!" she screamed. "Let me go!"

She heard someone behind her laughing. Furious, she wrenched herself out of Winslow's grip and turned to glare at the man.

He was dark haired, tanned, and good-looking, muscular from all his years on the sea. A dark-haired, exotic looking woman was draped over his arm, a black eyebrow arched at Cat. Cat stared sullenly back at both of them.

"And you said she would be simple to catch," the man said, spitting on the deck. "'Perfectly docile', you said. 'Wouldn't hurt a fly,' you said. From this display, I'd half think we caught the wrong girl."

"No, this is Seraph," Winslow said, disgruntled. "She's just upset."

"What a surprise," the man said. "I warned you, didn't I? Hell hath no fury, they say." He tipped his captain's hat in Cat's direction. "How do you do, Miss Welborne," he said. "I be captain of this vessel. Burton's the name – Tyris Burton."

Cat looked him over with a sniff of disapproval. "Mercer could have taken you," she said.

He laughed. "I like this wench," he said.

"You like all wenches," another pirate said.

The woman on Tyris's arm was glaring at Cat now, a possessive hand on Tyris's arm. "She don't look like much to me, captain," she said.

"Books and their proverbial covers, Zaida m'love," Tyris said, patting the woman on her rump. "Best to play on the side of caution." He studied Cat for a few moments, and finally waved a hand. "You want a place in the brig?" he said to her. "Then have a place. Gents?"

Several pirates swarmed up on either side of Cat and led her towards the lower decks. She followed mostly without resistance.

She paused just long enough to stare at the still-burning _Sea Siren_ before descending.

* * *

Victoria was extremely ready for her baby to be born.

Compared to the other women of the aristocracy, she felt like a great whalte. There they stood at every social function with their tiny cinched waists and their huge skirts – and here Victoria lay, draped on a couch in the parlor, minus the huge skirts and plus a huge belly. No undergarments or contraptions in the world could make her waist look thinner.

She had been staying home for the past few months. Rosemary visited her frequently as wedding plans were made. Catherine's father was also fond of stopping by, just to talk about his missing daughter. Victoria tried to assure him that Cat was probably fine, but it was difficult to be certain. She understood how dangerous Mercer's mission was, and it had been a very long time since Beckett had heard from his clerk.

When Rose and Cat weren't there, Victoria spent most of her time alone, sewing baby clothes and trying to oversee household affairs as best she could with her swollen belly. She had thought Beckett would be present more often, but she had hardly seen him since he had chosen to stay home. He told her that the Company was giving him a heavy workload, but she suspected he was on a personal mission.

The others in the aristocracy shared her opinion, and they told her their opinions quite frequently.

"Your husband was never really one for gambling," Varinia Webb observed to Victoria one day at tea. Varinia had already given birth to her baby – a boy. "But I've noticed him spending far too much time with some of the major gamblers – including Lawless." She waved her fan more rapidly. "Lawless is quite the handsome one," she continued, smiling. "Didn't he court Rose for awhile?"

"I suppose some might have thought of it that way," Victoria said grudgingly.

"Well, he's apparently courting Charlotta now, quite fervently," Varinia said. "A wasted match, if you ask me. Why didn't Rose pursue him?"

"Personal reasons," Victoria said shortly. "But believe you me, Varinia, Will Presbery is a much better choice. And she's so happy with him. It's not often a woman finds a man she truly cares about for her husband."

"That's hardly the point of a marriage," Varinia said with a disdainful sniff. "A marriage is a business contract. But you know that better than anyone else. You made the ultimate match, marrying Beckett."

Victoria smiled. "Just good business," she replied. She paused, frowning. "Gambling, you say?" she asked.

"Oh yes," Varinia said. "Almost every night." She put a hand to her mouth, eyes widening. "Oh, no. Are the pair of you fighting? You're not, are you? If so, I didn't mean to pry."

Victoria tried to think of things she might have done to irritate Beckett, but nothing came to mind. "No, I don't believe we've fought," she said. "But I suppose I might have offended him somehow without knowing." She shook her head. "But I expect I would have heard about it by now."

"Well, I can't think of many reasons why a man of his stature would gamble so frequently, unless he wishes to escape his wife," Varinia said. She looked thoughtful. "Of course, with Beckett you can never be sure. Maybe he's planning something. He's the type that does those sorts of things, isn't he?"

"Oh yes," Victoria said sourly. "Cutler's _always_ plotting." She lifted a biscuit and took a bite. "Maybe he's looking to blackmail someone," she said. "He likes knowing everything he can about everyone."

"Does he really?" Varinia said.

Victoria nodded, sighing. "He's worse than Emma and Charlotta combined," she said. "He grills me for gossip. I honestly don't believe he cares; I think he only wants to be prepared in case he ever needs to force someone's cooperation."

"Terrible," Varinia said, shaking her head. "But intelligent, I suppose."

"And irritating," Victoria replied. "But I can promise you that that's what he's doing at those gambling tables."

Despite that promise, and despite the consensus of many other aristocrats, Victoria worried. Was he angry with her? Had she done something wrong? Why was he never home? Was he concerned about their child?

She fretted too much over it. And when she realized that she was fretting too much over it, she became determined to numb herself. If he didn't want to be with her, then she didn't want to be with him, either.

She talked to him but seldom at meals, and avoided him on those occasions when he was at home. It didn't take him long to notice.

"You're late," he said to her, the fourth time she appeared at the table nearly a half hour later than she'd been directed to.

"Am I?" Victoria asked mildly, sitting down and beginning her meal. She refused to look at him.

"It's the fourth time," Beckett said. She could feel him glaring at her.

Victoria took a bite of her meat. "Been keeping count, have you?" She stared at the slice of bread on her plate.

"Oh, yes." Beckett leaned forward to glare at her in earnest. "It has to stop, Victoria. When I'm home, I expect you to be here with me."

"When you're home," Victoria said. "Which, I note, isn't very often these days. Why should I be on time to dinner when half the time you aren't even present to eat it?"

"I've been working," Beckett said.

"Have you?" Victoria snapped. She wanted to look up, but she couldn't quite stand to meet his gaze. "Because that's certainly not what I've been hearing."

Beckett sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'm not having an affair, if that's what you mean."

"That is not at all what I mean," Victoria said. "I'm not concerned about that."

"So confident in your ability to keep me interested?" Beckett asked, arching an eyebrow.

Victoria wasn't in the mood for banter. "I don't care who shares your bed, Cutler," Victoria said icily. "When I give birth I'll be busy with the child, and I'm sure that will irritate you. Being as demanding as you are, I'm sure you'll need a paramour to satisfy you."

Beckett was immediately suspicious, and not at all pleased. "First of all, you do care whom I take my pleasure with," he said. "I know you care, because you're always overreacting when the mere suggestion of the idea arises. Secondly, I have been searching for several prospective nurses who will help raise the children. They will have many of the primary duties that you seem to think will take up most of your time, so you needn't be concerned about that. Why the tone?"

"If you're not having an affair – which, by the way, I'm certain you aren't – then where have you been all these nights?" Victoria questioned. She finally trusted herself to glare at him. She had to be confident she could hold her own in response to his glare.

Beckett sighed. "I've been… researching."

Victoria arched a brow. "Researching?"

"Yes. Something that matters to us both."

"Then why haven't you spoken of it before?"

"I'm sure I have," Beckett said, "But only covertly. I don't want to tell you all the details until I'm certain. Is that enough for you?"

"No," Victoria said sullenly. "You've been gambling."

"Yes. And?"

"I disapprove."

Beckett took a sip of wine. "It is not your place to disapprove of my activities."

Victoria bristled. "If it's anyone's place, it's your wife's!" she exclaimed. "I was under the impression that you actually trusted me a little."

"I never trust anyone totally, Tori – you know that."

Victoria threw down her napkin. "Don't call me Tori," she said, standing and turning to leave. She wished she could make a dramatic exit, but her full belly prevented her from doing anything but waddling.

Beckett stood too, his chair scraping across the floor. "Tori…" he said.

"What did I just say?" she questioned irritably, grabbing hold of the doorframe. She was feeling a little unsteady.

"Victoria," he said through gritted teeth. "I understand why you disapprove of gambling, but I assure you it's not going to cause trouble. It's not even a hobby I enjoy."

"Then why are you at the tables every single night?" Victoria demanded, still not turning to face him. She was feeling peculiar, a little sick. Perhaps the food was bad.

"It's… part of my research. I can't really explain until I've gathered my evidence. Is it really that hard to understand?"

"It wouldn't be under different circumstances," Victoria said, turning to face him. "But I'm carrying your child, Cutler. It's difficult – in fact, damn near impossible – for me to go out in public at this stage, and no one really wants to visit an invalid. I'm starved for company. And I'm bored out of my skull trying to find things I'm still capable of doing. The servants fret over me and have me lying in the parlor all day. All I do is sew and sew and occasionally read. I feel ugly and unwanted and incredibly alone, and not even my husband wants to sit with me anymore. What project is more important than your child and wife?"

Beckett winced. "It isn't like that," he said.

"Isn't it?"

"No!" He started towards her. "This is for your good, and Mercer's, and mine, and Rose's. All of us. Trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"

"As far as I can thr – "

Victoria gasped. There was a rush of water down her legs, and she stumbled, clutching her belly. Beckett caught her.

"The baby?" he asked, sounding panic-stricken for what was perhaps the first time in his acquaintance with Victoria.

"Yes," she gasped out. "The baby. Get a midwife."

"But you need to get to a bed, or – "

"I'll at least get to the parlor," Victoria said. "Cutler, go! Run!"

"Right. Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, love." He cupped her face in his hands and quickly kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, I'll explain everything as soon as I can, I promise. I just – "

"Cutler," Victoria said, "_The baby._"

"Yes, of course… I'm going. I… be well." He cast her a fierce stare. "You're sure you'll be fine?"

Victoria looked up at him and smiled. "Just go," she said.

"All right," he said, face pale. "I'll be back very soon. Just – Oscar!"

And even though she was terrified, even though she knew she had a long hard night ahead of her, even though panic was beginning to well inside her at the thought of being a mother, it seemed to Victoria that things, disjointed though they had been, were about to fall back into place.


	14. Treasures

CHAPTER 14

"Greetings, Mr. Mercer," said Captain Jack Sparrow, grinning just a bit too widely at Beckett's henchman. "Lovely evening, innit?"

Mercer brushed himself off, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked.

Jack sighed theatrically, glancing over his shoulder at his first mate – Barbossa, Mercer remembered, one of the most notorious pirates on the high seas. Jack had acquired quite the crew, it seemed. "See? What'd I tell you? Not a bit of gratitude at all. You save a Company man's life, and all you get is irritation and questions for your trouble."

"Mercer, who is this man?" Ancelote asked, her fingers tight around her pistol. She glared suspiciously at Jack as he turned to look at her.

Jack gave a low whistle. "Why, hello there, miss," he said, approaching. She lifted the pistol to his head, and Jack stopped. "Firecracker, is she?" he said. "I like 'em homicidal."

"There's no point in aimin' that at our captain, missy," Barbossa called. "We know ye've got no shot in there."

Ancelote reluctantly lowered the pistol, still glaring.

"I'd watch your back anyway, Captain," Mercer advised. "I suspect this one can kill you without weapons."

"Weapons!" exclaimed Savage from behind them. "Weapons! I'm missing mine! Weapons!" And with that, he passed out.

Mercer sighed, and wished that he were back in London with a full escort of Black Coats behind him.

Jack wrinkled his nose at Savage. "I think your backup's down for the count," he observed.

"He's not always this useless," Ancelote said. "He would have shot you all by now if he was himself."

"You mean not staggeringly drunk?" Jack had approached Savage by now and knelt to smell him. "Phew. Smells of it, too."

"A terrible time to be drinking yerself silly, wouldn't ye say, Mister Mercer?" Barbossa said with an unkind smile.

Jack stood up and pointed a finger at Barbossa. "It is _never_ a bad time to drink oneself silly," he said. "Rum is always good. Right men?"

Everyone cheered.

"Wonderful," Ancelote snarled to Mercer. "We've been saved by a filthy lot of drunken pirates."

"I'm curious about that," Mercer said, his hand still on his pistol. It needed to be reloaded, but if he had to he could use it as a club; and anyway he had a few other weapons handy. He always did. "Why would Beckett's worst enemy want to rescue us? And how did he know we were here?"

"Worst enemy?" Jack repeated. "I'm flattered, mate! Didn't know the little man held me in such high esteem."

"He does after what happened to Victoria," Mercer said, eyes narrowing. "Something you were party to, Sparrow."

Sparrow's eyes clouded. "I didn't know what he was going to do," he said. "And by the time I returned it was too late."

"A likely story," Mercer sneered.

"That's the truth," Jack said flatly. "I always speak the truth."

His crew shuffled and snickered behind him. Barbossa raised both brows in disbelief.

"All right, I _mostly_ speak the truth," Sparrow sighed. He looked at his crew. They still didn't seem to believe him. "A quarter of the time?" he proposed.

They looked at one another, shrugged, and decided to accept that measurement. It was the most accurate they would get.

"There," Jack said, turning back to his prisoners. "A quarter of the time. That's not bad compared to your master, eh?"

Mercer snorted, but didn't reply. "So why the rescue, Sparrow?" he asked.

"I don't suppose the thought that I wanted to make amends crossed your mind?" Jack said, holding out his arms as though to embrace the two conscious Company crewmembers.

Ancelote looked to Mercer. Mercer just laughed.

"I'm entirely sincere," Jack said, looking wounded. "I thought, 'Rumor has it one Mister Mercer's in the area; maybe I ought to go apologize for what happened to the short one's beloved and explain how it wasn't my fault and all that.' So here we are, all jolly good friends, ready to make amends. Yes?"

"No," Mercer said flatly. "Your show of contriteness is deeply moving, but I'm afraid we have more pressing matters to attend to. If you really want to apologize, you ought to go to London and visit Beckett. Now, if you'll excuse us." He turned, preparing to lift Savage off the ground and drag him to the harbor. Or perhaps just shoot him. It might be easier without him.

He stopped when he heard the cocking of multiple pistols behind his head. "Well, see, it's not quite that simple," Jack said.

Mercer sighed and turned. Ancelote had a hand at her belt – probably where she stored a knife. "I assumed it wouldn't be," he said wearily. "Let me guess: you want to show your gratitude and friendliness onboard your ship?"

"Precisely!" Jack said. "So if you'll just walk this way, we'd all be much obliged."

"I'm sure," Mercer growled, stalking through the middle of the group. He was gratified when all of them moved aside for him, eyeing him nervously. All except for Barbossa, that is.

"Where yeh goin', Mister Mercer?" he asked, grabbing Mercer's arm in a viselike grip. "The ship be that way."

Mercer bared his teeth in a feral snarl, but did nothing else. Given the chance, he would slice Barbossa to ribbons – but he wasn't in a position to do that now. Instead, he turned and barked at the pirates, "Make sure to pick up my unconscious associate – I might need him later!"

A group of pirates dutifully moved off in Savage's direction when Jack gave them a nod. Mercer turned away again, assured now that his second-in-command would be coming. He caught a glimpse of three pirates gleefully taking hold of Ancelote, and the look of disgust on her face as they got a firm grip on her. "I'll kill you, pigs!" she spat.

"Gents, please," Jack said. "Handle the lady gently."

There were depressed murmurs of compliance, and the pirates released her, mostly. Two still hung onto her arms.

Barbossa led Mercer through the deepening dark of Bombay to the harbor, and undoubtedly the _Black Pearl_, Jack's pirate ship – formerly a Company ship. Another insult against Beckett. If he had had a larger crew, Mercer would have killed this whole crew and stolen it. Beckett would have loved that.

They cleared the buildings, and Mercer caught sight of the top of a ship fleeing the harbor – the _Redemption._ He tensed at once, staring at the sails as they hurried towards the horizon. Catie was onboard that vessel – he was certain of it. Catie, and Winslow. Kidnapped, Savage had said – taken by the pirates for Winslow's use. Mercer ground his teeth. If he had the opportunity, he would go after her at once – but no, he had nothing. No crew, and no ship. There were billowing clouds of smoke and steam hissing through the harbor, undoubtedly from the _Siren_. His resources were quite slim.

"What is that?" Jack asked, coughing.

"My ship," Mercer said grimly.

Barbossa patted him on the arm in mock comfort. "Today's not your lucky day, is it?" he said. "Better luck tomorrow."

"I doubt it," Mercer said faintly, staring in the general direction of the _Redemption_. Most of the ship was obscured by smoke, but he could still see the crow's nest and a flag. He forced himself to turn away. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what this is really about?" he said.

"As soon as we have ye aboard," Barbossa assured him. He veered to the right, turning Mercer away from the remains of the _Siren_. They stumbled through the smoke for a bit and finally arrived at the _Pearl._ Barbossa dragged Mercer aboard and shoved him in the direction of the captain's cabin. At least they would meet in style.

Barbossa opened the door to the cabin and shoved Mercer inside. To his credit, Mercer didn't stumble. He moved calmly to a chair and dropped down, getting comfortable. He thought he ought to enjoy it, as it would likely be his last chance for a long time.

Ancelote followed on Barbossa's heels, shoved inside by a short, balding, and rotund pirate and his counterpart, a tall, thin pirate with an eye patch. "So long, poppet," the round one said, and the two left snickering.

Several more pirates appeared, carrying Savage on their shoulders. They dropped him in a heap in the corner and also left after standing respectfully aside for Jack. He waltzed through the cabin and dropped into a comfortable chair across from Mercer and Ancelote, who had also sat. For a long moment, the two Company members stared in silence at the pirates. Neither party said anything to the other for at least five minutes. Granted, Savage couldn't speak, but Mercer believed his side would win the unofficial silent contest anyway. Jack Sparrow wasn't the type to keep quiet about anything.

"So," Jack said, proving Mercer correct. "To celebrate my contrition, how about some rum, eh?"

"I'd rather know what you really want," Mercer said, fingering a knife inside his coat.

"See that, Hector?" Jack said, tsking at Barbossa. "Company men – and women, o'course – all business, no fun."

"I'll celebrate when I'm free of you, Sparrow," Mercer growled.

"Ah ah," Jack said, holding up a finger. "That's captain to you, _Mister_ Mercer."

Mercer arched a disdainful brow, but didn't address the remark. "So what is it you need?"

Jack grabbed a bottle of rum, conveniently set upon a nearby shelf, and took a swig. "You, sir," he started, pointing an unsteady finger at Mercer, "Have my compass – the one I lent to Beckett's charming bride all that time ago."

Ancelote furrowed her brows. "A compass?" she said. "Surely you have another, Captain Sparrow."

"Not like this one," Jack said. "This one's special. And it's mine. And the lending period is up, and has been up for some time. I should charge interest."

"We wouldn't pay it," Mercer said flatly, careful to keep his hand away from his coat. The compass was hidden beneath its flaps, tied to his belt. Victoria had given it to him secretly, packing it in his bags. He hadn't noticed until halfway through the ship's journey, and even after he'd found it he'd avoided using it. No need to share this mysterious gift with a man like Savage if it wasn't absolutely necessary. "What makes you think I have this compass?" Mercer asked, his face betraying nothing.

Barbossa leveled a glare at him. "Ye'd best have it," he said, "Or ye'll soon find yerself in the depths of Davy Jones' locker."

"I quiver in terror," Mercer drawled. "You haven't answered my question."

"Let's just say I did a bit o' searching," Sparrow said. "Surreptitiously."

"Mmm." Mercer looked between the two pirates. "But how can you be certain it's here with me? My ship did burn, after all."

Jack momentarily looked panicked. "Burned?" he squawked. "Burned? You burned my compass?"

"I didn't," Mercer said, holding up his hands innocently. "You can blame one of your own for that – one Tyris Burton and his pirate crew."

"Blech," Jack said, making a face. "What're they after you for then?"

"Isn't being part of the Company enough?"

"More than enough," put in Barbossa, irritated. "So what ye be tellin' us, so far as I can tell, is that ye have no compass and thus no bargaining chip, which gives us the right to kill ye."

Mercer held up a finger. "I never said the compass burned."

Jack and Barbossa exchanged a glance. "Then where is it?" Barbossa asked.

"Now, why would I tell you where it was, knowing, as I do, that you intend to kill me once I do?" Mercer asked. Ancelote nodded in approval. "If you want to know, I expect our lives to be spared, and a favor done for me."

"Ridiculous," Barbossa snorted. "We make no bargains with Company men!"

Jack stroked his beard. "What sort of favor?" he asked.

Barbossa turned to stare at his captain. "Ye can't be serious," he said, incredulous.

Mercer leaned forward. "It will be a favor you enjoy," he promised.

Barbossa snorted, but Jack seemed interested. "How much will I enjoy it?"

"That depends. Just how much do you hate Tyris Burton?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Possibly not as much as you seem to," he said. "What's old Burtie done to you, anyway?"

Mercer's eyes narrowed. "Tried to kill me, set fire to my ship, and kidnapped a member of my party," he said.

"Ah," Jack said. "Well, that would be several excellent reasons to hate someone."

"I thought so," Mercer said, his expression grim. "I would like to recover the lost member of my party, since none of my other losses can be recouped. If you help me overtake Burton's ship and reclaim my lost member, I will lead you to the compass."

Barbossa and Jack exchanged uncertain glances. Mercer wasn't surprised. He wouldn't have trusted him, either, if he were in their position.

"Give us a moment to discuss this over wine and crackers, eh?" Jack said. "Or rum and… rum."

"A moment," Mercer conceded.

Jack rose unsteadily from his chair and wobbled his way out, followed closely by Barbossa, who paused long enough to shoot Mercer a poisonous glare before leaving.

When the door closed, Ancelote turned to him with a worried expression. "Do you know what they want?" she asked softly.

"Of course," Mercer said dismissively. "I have it."

"Where?"

"With me," Mercer said in a very low voice. "But they hardly need to know that. If they can overtake the _Redemption _and set Catie free, we'll have completed half our mission."

Ancelote looked doubtful. "They'll never let us leave the ship alive," she said.

"That was why I specifically said we would complete only half the mission."

That was not the comforting plan Ancelote had been hoping for. "Surely you can think of some way to escape them?"

"At the moment? No." Mercer rubbed his eyes. "But if I think of something, I'll let you know. And if you think of anything, let me know."

"Should we tell Savage, when he wakes?" Ancelote asked.

Mercer glared at the still figure in the corner. "I'd rather shoot the bastard than drag him around, but if we must, we must."

"He's not always so useless," Ancelote pointed out.

"Oh, no," Mercer agreed sourly. "Just when we need him most."

The door sprang open and Jack entered, a large grin plastered across his face. "Congratulations, gent and lady!" he said. "We've decided to accept your offer! We attack the _Redemption_, get back your crew member, and send you on your way once you hand over the compass."

"After the attack on the _Redemption_, of course," Mercer said.

Jack bowed. "Of course."

Mercer nodded shortly. "Good," he said. "We have a bargain."

"Marvelous!" Jack said. He turned, and Mercer noted that most of the crew was standing outside the door. "Now, gents," Jack said to them. "Toss 'em in the brig."

Mercer sighed and grumbled, "Somehow I knew that would happen next."

* * *

It had been seventeen hours. Beckett had been counting.

At first it hadn't been so bad. The midwife had come and, on the direction of Victoria's maid, Eleanor, had hurried upstairs to one of the closest guest bedrooms, where Victoria had apparently stationed herself. The door had been closed, and Beckett had been firmly locked out.

This did not bother him unduly so long as he received regular reports on what was happening. Eleanor saw this, even though he had not specifically requested it of her. He stationed himself in his home office and worked on various contracts. Eleanor interrupted at least once every hour to report that Victoria was doing wonderfully, but that she had hours still before the baby was born.

Beckett had slept for a few hours in the dead of night, but had woken up early to a good deal of hustle and bustle. He'd climbed out of bed and asked the servants what was happening, but they all assured him nothing was wrong and went back into the room.

He had worked through the remainder of the night, dressing at three in the morning and preparing himself for the day ahead. When there was finally light outside, he sent his temporary clerk and bodyguard to alert headquarters that he would not be coming in. He'd continued working at home, pausing only to eat breakfast.

Throughout the morning he'd started to hear high-pitched screams emanating from the guest bedroom. At first he told himself that someone would alert him to what was happening, but his hourly reports had ceased at around six in the morning. He saw servants running past him, but even when he called after them none of them would pause to share what they knew. They carried clean rags and buckets of water and innumerable other items past him, looking harried and exhausted. Their grim expressions terrified him.

It was eleven in the morning now, and he found himself entirely incapable of working. He sat instead at his desk, head buried in his hands, and listened to his wife screaming. The screams were louder now and more frequent.

"What in damnation is going on down there?" he shouted as Eleanor ran past his door.

"She's fine," Eleanor panted. "No time. Baby coming." And she was gone.

Beckett heaved an enormous sigh and sat back in his chair. He had no particular desire to witness the birth of his child – he'd heard it was a disgusting process and didn't want to be involved unless it was absolutely necessary – but he thought, as the father of the baby and the husband of the woman giving birth, he had a right to know what was going on.

"Eleanor!" he said sharply as the woman bustled past him again.

"No time!" she called back.

"Eleanor!" But she ignored him.

He sat back at his desk and tapped his fingers impatiently against the desk. Eleanor hurtled past his door again, running this time. That worried him. Had something gone seriously wrong? She'd been in that room such a long time, and everyone looked so concerned…

At that moment, a sharp, keening cry broke through the house – a baby's cry. Beckett was on his feet and out the door before he'd even realized he was moving.

He ran down the hall and went to stand in front of the guest room door, stripped down to his shirtsleeves. He tried to still himself, but he had to move – all his nerves were on fire. He had a child. His baby was born. He paced impatiently outside the door. When would they come out to tell him about his son?

It took what felt like an hour. It was probably about fifteen minutes. Then the door opened, and Eleanor came out, sweaty, exhausted, red-faced, and smiling.

"Congratulations, my Lord," she said with a curtsy. "Your baby is very healthy."

"Son?" Beckett asked.

She bit her lip. "Daughter," she said.

He groaned.

Eleanor looked shocked. "You should be happy that both your baby and wife are healthy, sir!" she said.

"Oh, I am," he assured her. "But Victoria will be boasting about this for months."

Eleanor stared at him blankly for a moment. Then she laughed. "Oh, I'd forgotten," she said. "You insisted it would be a boy, and she insisted otherwise."

"I hate it when she's right," he growled. He brightened. "Can I at least see my daughter?"

"Not at the moment," Eleanor said. "Both wife and daughter are being bathed, and Victoria will need to sleep, poor thing. She's been awake far too long."

"I've seen her in the bath before," Beckett said, pushing past Eleanor.

"My lord – !" Eleanor protested, but too late; Beckett was already in the room.

The room was a disaster. The servants were removing the sheets from the bed; Beckett caught glimpses of blood and other bodily fluids everywhere. The room smelled strongly, too – a mix of sweat and blood and other things. Basins of water stood everywhere, along with discarded wet cloths. Upon seeing Beckett, the servants began frantically attempting to pick everything up.

He waved dismissively at them. "Take your time," he advised. "You've had a long night."

The servants nearly collapsed in relief, murmuring fervent thank you's to him. He was inwardly amused. Apparently his generosity always came as a welcome surprise to the servants.

He stepped gingerly through the obstacle course of items and entered the bathroom, where Victoria lay slumped in a tub full of warm water. The servant bathing her looked up and blushed upon seeing Beckett. "She's very tired, m'lord," she said hesitantly. "Perhaps you should – "

Victoria's eyes fluttered open. "Cutler," she said.

"Tori." He moved past the servant, knelt, and took her hand.

Victoria smiled lazily at him. "You were wrong," she said.

He groaned again. "Tori, can't you let it rest at least until you can walk again?"

"No," she said. "No, I can't." She nodded to a new servant who had entered behind Beckett. "Look at her. Isn't she beautiful?"

He stood at once and turned to face the servant. She held a small bundle in her arms, a red-faced and wrinkly – but clean – baby. "Here," the servant said, handing the baby to Beckett. "Support her head on your arm – there. And hold her bottom."

Beckett balanced the unfamiliar weight in his arms, staring down at the little creature he held. He was struck by her smallness – the tiny toes, the little fingers, the nose and ears. The baby blinked at him with bright blue eyes and then drifted off into sleep, the picture of innocence.

"Helena, do you think?" he asked faintly.

"Helena," Victoria agreed.

He smiled and rocked the small child. "Welcome to the world, Helena Beckett," he said.

*


End file.
